


The Devil's Crowll

by fredbassett



Series: Stephen/Ryan series [12]
Category: Primeval
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-31
Updated: 2012-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-30 10:23:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 47,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/330696
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fredbassett/pseuds/fredbassett
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Events take an unusual turn in the Forest of Dean.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The track was a morass of blood-red puddles, running deep into an overgrown hollow. Tall beeches and shattered yews loomed overhead, blocking out the sky. Ferns clung to dark rock, rock sculpted not by nature, but by the hands, and picks, of man. The Romans worked here first, removing the flesh from the landscape, exposing its bones, digging ever deeper in their search for the ore to feed their forges, for the metal to supply their armies. For iron.

Others followed in their footsteps and the workings grew ever deeper.

And even two thousand years ago, yew trees grew here. The miners had learnt to follow their roots, knowing that the trees would lead them to the ore they prized so highly. But not knowing why. It was one of the many things about the area for which there was no explanation. Then or now.

* * *

Stephen Hart stepped into a puddle and cursed as red mud splattered up his legs and water seeped inexorably into his boots. He’d given up trying to skirt along the edges of the track about a mile back after nearly ending up flat on his arse. Only an undignified flailing grab at a dead branch had kept him upright as he’d slithered down the slope heading for the mud he’d been at such pains to avoid.

Ryan had just laughed. Stephen correctly interpreted the look in his eyes and had declined the proffered hand. He knew exactly where he would have ended up if he’d accepted.

The hotel’s washing machines had worked overtime for the past week and he was still running out of clean clothes. They all were. Was this sodding weather never going to improve? It had rained almost non-stop for a week. He’d settled the rifle strap back over his shoulder and tramped on after Ryan, cursing under his breath.

They’d been working here for two weeks now. In that time they’d identified three Anomaly sites and produced endless, albeit inconclusive reports.

One Anomaly seemed to come and go within an area of no more than a hundred square metres. That one had got Cutter really excited, and the rest of them, for that matter, but it never remained long enough to study properly. The first time they’d arrived almost as it was fading out of existence. Even the second time they got there it was weakening and after a heated argument Nick had been forced to agree with Ryan that it was too dangerous to do more than take a quick look on the other side. And that quick look had told them very little. 

Splintered, shining shards had opened onto a rolling grassland, obviously temperate, but with nothing bigger than a normal sized bug in sight, they’d not been able to place the when or the where.

They’d kept two of the Special Forces soldiers on guard at that site for the first ten days, but after its third, equally transitory, appearance, it had not returned. Ryan had discontinued the watch at the beginning of the week, much to the relief of his men, who had got heartily sick of watching one particular spot in ten hour shifts. All they’d done since then was check on it twice a day, monitoring for residual magnetism, and faithfully adding the recordings to the ever-growing pile of paperwork.

In fact they were coming dangerously close to drowning in reports and the area of the hotel being used as an office was starting to bear a close, and distinctly unhealthy, resemblance to Cutter’s own office.

Two other sites had also been found just as they were fading, so no investigations had been possible, but nothing appeared to have come through them, although again they did a daily check, just in case. They were all getting a lot of fresh air, but whether it counted as fun or not was a matter of some debate. Usually in the hotel bar. The consensus of opinion was that most of them would prefer to make a close investigation of a nice warm beach somewhere, with no trees and no mud.

Cutter had wanted to spend more time in the Forest, searching, speculating, chasing shadows, chasing a past of his own that was dead and buried, but like it or not, he had a department to run and responsibilities, no matter how inconvenient, couldn’t be avoided for ever. The best they’d been able to come up with by way of a compromise was a bad dose of glandular fever for Stephen. Lester had obtained a sick note from a Home Office doctor, and hadn’t given Stephen any say in the choice of illness, much to his irritation and everyone else’s amusement.

But there were compensations and one of them was walking along a disgustingly muddy track with him, in companionable silence. Stephen felt a sudden urge to run his hand up the other man’s neck and through the rain-darkened hair. He glanced round. None of the other team members were in sight, so he gave in and did exactly that.

Ryan slid an arm round Stephen’s waist and turned to him for a kiss, slow and open-mouthed, then before they sank even further into the soft earth they carried on up the track, heading for higher ground, and hopefully less mud.

As they climbed out of the steep-sided, fern decked valley, the hairs on the back of Stephen’s neck started to rise. He glanced back over one shoulder, half expecting to see one of the soldiers in view behind them.

The track was deserted.

A soft voice in front of him remarked, “I was wondering when you’d notice. She’s somewhere above us and to the left. Has been for at least ten minutes. Keep walking, we need to get into the open.”

At the top of the slope, the track petered out and a carpet of beech leaves and beech mast lay in a thick covering on the soft red soil. The rain had dried up for the first time that day and there was even a small break in the clouds, but it didn’t look like it would last long.

Ryan sauntered over to a tall, grey beech and leant against the bole of the tree. He turned to face Stephen, looking deceptively relaxed, hoping his lover would take the hint.

Stephen stepped up close, linking his hands together behind Ryan’s neck, pressing his body against him, feeling vaguely self-conscious and uncomfortable, and not just because he was soaked.

“Are you sure?” he breathed into Ryan’s right ear, the one that didn’t have the radio headset attached to it, running his tongue into the small hollow behind the lobe.

By way of answer Ryan turned his head towards Stephen and spoke softly into the microphone, “Kermit, Fizz, we have the Traveller in sector 7. Dr Hart and I will provide a distraction, but take it slow and keep it quiet.”

He wrapped an arm round Stephen’s neck and started to kiss him, running his tongue round lips and teeth, feeling the hesitation, tasting the embarrassment. “Time to perform for the audience, lover boy.”

Stephen leant hard into Ryan’s groin, and had the satisfaction of hearing a slight gasp as he muttered, “No way. I know Helen, remember.”

Actually, you fucked her, thought Ryan, wondering at what point Hart might come clean with that small, but important fact, although now didn’t seem like a good time to initiate that particular conversation. “Stop playing the blushing bride, Hart, and start providing the distraction I’ve just promised. And for preference leave my sight lines clear.”

No way, just no way. I am not giving you a blow-job in front of a woman I had an affair with. Aloud he said, “You have got to be kidding.” The look in Ryan’s grey eyes answered that question and Stephen stomach didn’t so much sink as go into free-fall. “What makes you think she’ll stay around and watch?”

Ryan’s chuckle would ordinarily have been a turn-on, but at the moment, Stephen felt like he was neck-deep in an icy puddle. “She’s a woman, Hart, of course she’ll stay and watch.”

And the bastard was right, which didn’t make things any easier. He couldn’t even console himself with the thought that Helen would just walk away in disgust before things got too embarrassing.

Oh shit, he was so not going to enjoy this.

A strong hand slid down to his arse, pulling Stephen sharply against Ryan’s body, and the kiss suddenly became harder and deeper and it felt like Ryan was trying to climb inside his mouth. Hips ground forcefully into his and started the inevitable chain-reaction in Stephen’s own body.

And under the inexorable push of Ryan’s hands he sunk to his knees on the cold, wet earth, forcing his own reluctant fingers to fumble with a recalcitrant zip, to rearrange clothing just enough for hands and mouth to do what was needed. To provide a distraction while two Special Forces soldiers tried to capture the woman he had once thought he was in love with.

Ryan settled himself comfortably against the smooth silvery bark of the ancient tree. He had no particular qualms about public sex, but even he had to admit that this was somewhat novel. He tried to keep his breathing slow and even, conscious that there was an open radio feed less than two inches away from his mouth, with at least two of his men listening in.

Stephen gripped Ryan’s hips through the tough material of the black combat trousers, picturing the now-faded bruises, using the memories of the angry shower-fuck to drive away embarrassment. He drove his thumbs into flesh, trying to hurt now, letting his teeth graze their way along Ryan’s cock, sucking too hard quite deliberately. To Stephen’s irritation, the Special Forces leader simply slid one hand lightly along his neck and up through his hair, caressing, stroking, running fingers along the line of his jaw, making no attempt to stop him.

Damn it, if it came to a competition to discover each other’s pain threshold, Stephen had a nasty feeling that Ryan would emerge the winner every time. And the sane part of his brain knew this was something he shouldn’t put to the test, ever, but at the moment, sanity was in serious danger of being over-whelmed by an unhealthy mixture of embarrassment and anger, spurring him into actions he’d almost certain be called to account for later. Probably painfully.

“No, all quiet here. Report when you get to Sector 10.” Ryan’s words, spoken in an entirely normal tone of voice, completely at odds with their current activities, made Stephen jump and caused his teeth to drag even harder than he’d intended over delicate skin. Ryan’s breath hissed sharply. “Static,” he said curtly, in reply to a question that only he’d heard. He reached up and gave the appearance of turning the radio off. “No need to rush, they’re going the other way.”

Stephen slid his tongue, and teeth, slowly along Ryan’s cock, this time using his teeth quite intentionally as looked up, blue eyes dark and angry, “You’re enjoying this, you bastard.” His voice was no louder than a murmur and his breath tickled and teased.

Ryan grinned, grey eyes amused and sardonic, “I thought you’d realised by now that I like it rough, or wasn’t that what you meant?” He ran his fingers again through the short black hair, spiky with rain, trailing nails down his lover’s cheeks as he thrust forward with his hips, wondering whether Hart was going to open his mouth again or not. The lads were getting closer, but if she broke and ran now, they probably weren’t close enough. They couldn’t afford to call a halt to this display just yet, but he was starting to wonder whether he could rely on continued cooperation or not.

He knew she was still watching, he could feel her eyes on them. He knew Hart could feel her gaze as well. No hunter could fail to be aware of her presence. And by the same token, he was pretty sure she’d guess this was a set up but he was relying on her curiosity to keep her nearby.

Stephen’s knees were cold and wet, his stomach was tied in a knot of positively Gordian proportions, and his first faint stirrings of arousal had subsided totally. But Ryan was right. They had a job to do. He could lose his temper later, but at the moment, they needed to keep Helen occupied while Ryan’s lads closed in.

He shut his eyes, trying hard to pretend that he wasn’t on his knees in the middle of a cold, wet wood, sucking his boyfriend’s cock, watched by the woman who’d seduced him nearly ten years ago. A woman he’d followed around like a puppy for an entire summer. A woman who’d made love to him knowing, but not caring, that he was her husband’s best friend. Or had it been because he was her husband’s best friend? He’d never been sure. But either way, she’d encouraged him and he’d fallen for her, big time. And then she’d left him. Left both of them. And they’d both mourned her. And it had hurt. It had hurt so fucking much that it still twisted his guts whenever he thought of it.

His anger suddenly wasn’t directed at Ryan any more. And he wasn’t embarrassed any more either. If she wanted to watch, then fine, he’d give her something to think about while she ran around in the past, doing God only knew what.

Helen had been good in bed, but she’d also been a selfish lover. Always ready to demand what gave her pleasure, yet rarely, if ever, taking the time to find out what turned him on, but ten years ago, it hadn’t seemed to matter. Thinking back on it, he couldn’t remember her ever going down on him. It hadn’t been her sort of thing, and he’d never had the confidence to ask, but she’d always made sure he performed to her complete satisfaction.

An idea started to form and he quickened the movements of mouth and hands, ignoring Ryan’s urgent and breathless whisper, “Not so fast! We need to keep her watching.”

“Trust me, we will,” said Stephen, softly.

“You’d better be right. The lads are still a few minutes away and I’m not gonna last that long.”

“Good, ‘cos it’s my turn next and then we’ll see how well you make out in front of an audience, Captain Ryan,” and with that, Stephen employed hands, lips, tongue and teeth, hard, wet and just tipping over into pain, exactly the way he knew the other man liked it and in less than a minute, in spite of the open radio link, he’d dragged one long gasping groan out of his lover, as Ryan’s orgasm hit him hard and fast, bending his spine, forcing his hips forward and his shoulders back against the bark of the tree.

Stephen sank back on his heels, hoping Helen had positioned herself so she had a good view of his face. He ran his tongue round his lips and swallowed. With a grin on his face that owed nothing to embarrassment and everything to mischief, he reached up and rearranged Ryan’s clothing, then held out a hand and was pulled up out of the mud with a soft glooping sound into a shuddering embrace.

“My turn now,” Stephen announced, in a voice that any listener couldn’t fail to hear.

“Dream on, they’re already asking where we are.”

“Tell ‘em we’re busy. I told you, Ryan, it’s my turn now.”

“It’s starting to rain again.”

“Quit stalling and start using your mouth for something other than talking, Captain.”

Ryan laughed, remembering when he’d said something very similar. He pushed Hart back against the tree, planting both hands firmly on either side of his shoulders. He’d worked out what was going through his lover’s mind and it didn’t take a therapist to guess what sort of relationship he’d had with Helen Cutter so many years ago. From what he’d seen so far, that woman had managed to leave two right royally fucked up guys behind her. If this helped Hart re-establish some sort of control over his own past, he was happy to oblige, even though it would provide his lads with some interesting noises in their headsets. Correction, some more interesting noises.

“Make it good, Ryan,” Stephen murmured, “she’d never do this, it wasn’t her sort of thing. I want her hear what’s going on as well as see it and she’ll know if I’m faking.”

“Did you often have to fake it with her?” asked Ryan calmly, accepting the revelation of Hart’s affair without any display of surprise, talking almost directly into his lover’s mouth, punctuating his words with kisses.

“Sometimes. When I wanted to please her but wasn’t really in the mood. It was easier that way.” And that was something Stephen had never believed he’d tell anyone. And looking back, he realised now that the only person he’d been fooling then was himself. Not Helen. She’d always been able to see straight through him.

Ryan unbuttoned Stephen’s jeans and slowly slid the zip down. He loosened the belt, but left it buckled, not wanting to do anything which would hinder sudden movement if, correction, when, it became necessary.

He knew exactly what to do to start drawing interesting noises from his lover, and embarrassment wasn’t something Ryan suffered from. The only slightly awkward thing was listening to the quiet progress reports from his lads as they approached at the same time as he was taking his lover deep into his throat without gagging. It was fortunate he’d had a lot of practice at this recently. They both had.

A low growl of thunder in the heavy air suddenly disturbed the silence, and the rain started to fall, hard and heavy. The thick canopy of the beech tree stopped it from falling on them, but it wouldn’t be long before the downpour broke through. Ryan was pleased. The noise would be useful when it came to concealing his men’s approach.

The radio headset made it difficult for Stephen to run his fingers through Ryan’s hair without compromising their communications, so he dug his nails instead into the smooth bark of the tree and tipped his head back, moaning. The fact that Helen was watching was now adding to his arousal rather than detracting from it.

She’d always wanted her men quiet in bed, not demonstrative. She didn’t like much in the way of noise, that and any overt displays of affection were a very quick way of drawing a disapproving glance or a sharp remark. She’d even grumbled to him about the way Nick liked to cuddle after making love, rather than simply turning over and falling asleep, which was always her preference. Stephen hadn’t understood her, even then, but he’d taken her comment about her husband for the warning it undoubtedly was.

Stephen had remembered her words during the long nights he’d nursed a whisky bottle with Cutter, and he’d never objected when Nick had fallen asleep with his head on his shoulder, one of Stephen’s arms tucked round him, holding him, just holding him, tears still wet on Cutter’s cheeks ……... on both their cheeks.

A warning nip brought him back to the present. He looked down at the dark blond head between his legs, enjoying the warm slide of Ryan’s lips and the flickering tongue. He pushed the past back into its box and slammed the lip shut. It was now that mattered.

Strong fingers stroked him through wet denim, moving round from his arse to his hips and down his thighs. It would’ve been better to feel flesh on flesh, but this was still good, and the knowledge that they were being watched now made it better still.

God, a lot could change in ten years. But even more could change inside ten days or even ten minutes. He wondered if Helen had found anyone she cared about in the time she’d been missing. Frankly, he doubted it. He wasn’t totally sure she had the capacity to care for anyone other than herself. With hindsight, he wondered what either of them had seen in her, but hindsight, as he knew to his cost, was still the only exact science. Part of him wondered whether he’d run back to heel if she clicked her fingers. The rest of him didn’t know the answer. Or maybe just didn’t want to know it.

People could be like ducklings at times, sharing their habit of imprinting on the first thing they saw when they came out of their shells. Only with human beings it was the way they picked up habits, good or bad, from their first lovers and carried them through into future relationships. Even with the women he’d been with since Helen, he’d always held back, never wanting to let too many of his feelings show in case they got flung back in his face with a casually taunting remark.

It had taken a man he barely knew to make him feel comfortable enough with himself to do anything other than bite the sounds back before they even left his throat. He’d enjoyed more genuine companionship and comfort from Ryan in the short time they’d been together than he’d ever got from Helen Cutter in a relationship that had lasted nearly two years.

Then Ryan’s mouth started to drag him down into the long, inexorable slide into orgasm from which there was no return. Stephen was panting and whimpering in all the ways she used to hate and it felt so fucking good.

His cry of pleasure echoed through the trees and he made no attempt to bite it back. Let the bitch listen!

If it hadn’t been for Ryan’s hands still holding him upright, he’d have sunk into a boneless heap in the mud and part of him wanted to do exactly that. The other part knew there was still business to attend to.

And he’d barely had time to draw breath before he heard a yell of, “Right, she’s breaking right!”

Ryan’s reactions were a split second faster than Stephen’s but he’d had the advantage of the radio for advance warning. Stephen cursed the fact that he’d left his behind. He fumbled with his jeans, grabbed the rifle and dived after his lover.

The soft ground hindered them. It dragged at their boots, holding them back, making the dash through the wet forest almost dream-like, but one of those dreams where you tried to run but never got anywhere.

“She’s heading back into the Scowles,” yelled Ryan, “head her off before she goes to ground!”

He was talking about the deep furrows left by the ancient miners, some of which contained tracks like the one they’d walked up not so long before. The Scowles were a labyrinthine tangle of dark gullies, overgrown with trees in places, adorned with thick, heavy ferns, running deep into the heart of the forest. Blood red and mysterious.

And sodding difficult to negotiate in a hurry. The first cliff edge Stephen approached in the hope of finding a way down turned out to be a five metre drop into a tangle of broken trees. He cursed and carried on running. Ryan was ahead and he could see one of the other soldiers down below, but he hadn’t caught sight of Helen yet.

He saw Ryan drop down over the edge, using a fallen tree as a ladder and in moments he followed suit, ignoring the sting as a broken branch cut sharply into one cheek and blanking out the ominous creak from one of the dead limbs he was trusting his weight to with no time for sensible precautions. He reached the bottom in more or less one piece and carried on running, fumbling in the pouch at his belt for a tranquillizer dart, and wondering whether he really could fire on Helen if he saw her. But better a shot from his rifle than anyone else’s. He hadn’t heard Ryan give the order to fire, but then again he didn’t have a radio either.

He heard Ryan’s voice ahead calling, “Give up, Helen, you’re cornered!”

Stephen veered to the left, vaguely recognising where they were, thinking, It’s a dead end, we’ve got her! right up to the moment he rounded a tall rock buttress and, a second later, saw the splintered, all too familiar, shards of tattered light appear in the air at the end of the gully, hard up against the red of the rock-face, nestling amongst the tangled branches of a fallen yew tree like some sort of huge, shimmering spider’s web.

Without a backward glance, Helen ran straight into the fractured light.

One of the soldiers was hard on her heels. In spite of Ryan’s shouted order to stop, his own momentum carried him on. Into the Anomaly, away from their sight and away from his own time.

And then it winked out of existence. No fading, no gradual decline of energy. Just gone. Like it had never existed. Like a light being switched off. Gone, taking with it Helen Cutter and the soldier.

Ryan skidded to a halt, a look of frozen horror on his face.

Oh shit.


	2. Chapter 2

“Lost as in dead?”

“No, lost as in I don’t know where the fuck he is, sir,” growled Ryan. “Or, more importantly, when the fuck he is.”

Lester raised his eyebrows, waiting for the Special Forces leader to continue. Before Ryan had a chance to elaborate, Cutter arrived, radiating concern, hair sticking up as it always did when he was agitated.

“Ryan, I’m sorry. Stephen says we’ve got a man stuck on the other side of an anomaly. What happened?”

He followed your fucking wife, that’s what happened, thought the captain, angrily.

He was beginning to wish he’d told both men what had happened before they’d arrived. He just didn’t feel in the mood for explanations, but he hadn’t wanted to trust news like this to a potentially insecure phone network. So he was stuck with the explanations now when all he actually felt like doing was finding something anything and killing it.

They’d searched the Forest for five hours, checking and re-checking every known anomaly site, covering mile after fucking depressing, wet, muddy, miserable mile. They’d scared a group of ramblers half to death, leaving Lester to pick up the diplomatic pieces without a qualm or a backward glance. Or anything resembling an apology.

They had a man on the wrong side of an anomaly, and to put it bluntly, Special Forces didn’t give a shit about anything else. Stephen had smiled weakly at the wet, terrified walkers and had muttered something about exercises. They’d glared back at him and muttered something about complaints. He’d shrugged and had left them to their probably justified, but faintly irritating, self-righteous anger. He wasn’t paid to deal with public relations either.

Lester had arrived first, courtesy of a helicopter. He’d been in a meeting when Ryan’s call had come in, one that he couldn’t disentangled himself from early. But a call from his secretary to the Special Forces Directorate had secured him rapid transport to the hotel. Cutter had come the slow way, by road. He’d seen the helicopter arriving overhead as he drove through the forest and had known it would contain Lester. And that the man would look as immaculate as ever.

Lyle’s lads were on leave for the day and hadn’t arrived back yet so the woods were being combed now by the third Special Forces team. Ryan had ordered his own men off duty once they’d arrived back. They were in the bar now, edgy, quiet and on a hair-trigger. All of them.

Stephen felt the same way. The soldier they’d lost had been the one who’d taught him to use the rocket launcher. A man Stephen knew had a wife and a six month old baby girl waiting for him at home. A man he’d laughed with, drunk with and killed with. A man he liked. A lot.

Ryan turned to Cutter and made a conscious effort to rein in his anger. Unlike Lester’s political masters, he didn’t believe Nick Cutter was in any way responsible for his wife’s actions, but at times like this it was hard not to tar the man with the same brush.

“We were chasing your wife, Professor. She called up an anomaly and ran through it. My lad couldn’t stop in time and he went through after her.”

“She did what?” Incredulity was written right across Cutter’s face.

“Well, that’s what it fucking looked like,” said Ryan, defensively. He knew it sounded crazy, but hell, this whole business wasn’t exactly sane, so what did one more bit of lunacy matter?

“He’s right, Nick,” said Stephen quietly. “I came round the corner just behind Ryan. Helen was running straight into a dead end. An anomaly appeared, they both went through it, only metre or so apart, then it just vanished, taking them with it.”

Like she stuck her hand out for a fucking taxi, thought Ryan, bitterly. Only this one probably took her to the Permian or somewhere, not the sodding cinema.

They’d been close as well. So fucking close. But just not close enough. Or in Cooper’s case, too fucking close.

Nick Cutter ran his hands through his hair again, blue eyes open and honest. He knew why Ryan was angry, and he knew that part of it was directed at him. And he even sympathised with that view. Helen had a lot to answer for. He’d add this to the list. He spread his hands helplessly and said quietly, “I’m sorry, Ryan. I’m so damn sorry.”

So am I, and I’m going to be the one telling his wife, if we don’t get him back. Ryan sighed, “I’ve not given him up for dead yet, Professor.” He looked at Lester. “I don’t want news of this going any further for the moment, sir. Not until we’re sure.”

“And when do you think that might be, Captain?”

Ryan shrugged, feeling helpless in the face of something he couldn’t deal with at the business end of a gun or a knife. “Could be days, could be longer. We’ll have to see what her returns policy is. Let’s just hope she decides to keep him alive.”

“Helen is no a murderer!” Cutter’s accent came out even more strongly when he was stressed and the rr s rolled like thunder.

“Let’s hope you’re right, Professor,” said Ryan. He was saved from further comment by the slamming of car doors on the forecourt outside and the clatter of boots as Lyle came into the hotel at a run.

The lieutenant saw Lester and Cutter and came to a halt. He threw a hasty salute before demanding, “What’s happened? We passed one of Stringer’s lot on the track. He said there was trouble.”

“Kermit’s on the wrong side of an anomaly.”

“We go through?”

Ryan shook his head. “It closed. Immediately.”

Lyle ran a dirty hand through even filthier hair, unconsciously echoing Cutter’s movements. His face was liberally smeared with red mud, some dry and powdery, some still fresh and streaky. It was even caking his eyebrows. The two men who’d followed him in were just as bad. “Shit. We can go straight back out if you want. The other three should be back within half an hour.”

Ryan glanced at his watch. “Forget it. You’ve been underground for the best part of ten hours. Get cleaned up, get something to eat and get a rest. Stringer and his lads can stay out for the rest of the night. If they find one I’m going through.”

The look the captain gave both Lester and Cutter would have come close to stopping a charging gorgonopsid, and the two men wisely refrained from comment. There was no point in telling Ryan what he already knew. That there was no guarantee a fresh anomaly would lead them anywhere or anywhen in the right direction. That their chances of getting their man back were virtually non-existent. Unless Helen Cutter deigned to play like a nice puppy and return him safely, that is.

“Take your own advice, Ryan,” said Lester quietly. “Shower, eat, sleep. And get your men to do the same.”

Lester was right, but it didn’t make inactivity any easier.

By midnight, still nothing had been found and by two in the morning, even Ryan was starting to yawn. Finally, in response to a glare from Lester, he retired upstairs, leaving Cutter, Stephen and the Home Office man pouring over maps of the forest, showing every anomaly site marked with dates, times and known duration.

“He’s drunk a pint of coffee in the last hour,” remarked Lester, while Cutter headed off in search of another map. “I suspect you’ll have to hit him over the head with a brick or something to get him to sleep, Dr Hart.”

Lester’s tone was strictly neutral, and Stephen met the man’s brown eyes without embarrassment. After what Lester had seen, and heard, the day after the T. rex incident, there was hardly any point in acting coy now.

Lester had surprised him tonight. The man had stayed up with them, combing reports, checking, and cross-checking, for anything that might give them a lead as to where to expect a gateway to the past to appear next. He’d even tried lateral thinking and had spent five hours correlating anomaly sightings with phases of the moon and tide timetables. Which had been creative. Even if it had got them absolutely nowhere.

Stephen stood up, “Call me if anything happens,” and with that, he followed Ryan up to the bedroom.

The light was off. Ryan was standing in front of the window, staring out into a starless night. He’d thrown his jacket onto a chair and kicked his boots off, but that was all. Stephen walked up behind him and slid his arms round his lover’s waist, resting his head on Ryan’s shoulders.

He could feel the tension in every line of the strong body and knew that caffeine was waging war with adrenaline fatigue. Not a good combination for someone who badly needed sleep. He reached up and started to undo the buttons on Ryan’s shirt. The soldier made no move to stop him. Stephen tugged the shirt out of Ryan’s trousers and ran his hands down over the other man’s chest, dipping to his waist, then back up again, feather-light, feeling the flat, hard planes of muscle beneath his fingers.

Stephen slipped the shirt far enough back off tanned shoulders to nuzzle the back of Ryan’s neck. The other man sighed and stroked the back of one of his lover’s hands. Stephen slid one hand down to the waistband of Ryan’s trousers, undid the belt and the top button, then hesitated, uncertain whether his attentions were welcome or not.

In answer, Ryan pressed back with his hips, brushing against Stephen’s own erection.

A hand moved lower, opening his zip, slipping inside, stoking, encircling. Ryan sighed again. “What sort of woman is she, Hart?”

Stephen’s hand stopped in the middle of a stroke. He thought about his answer before replying. “Nick’s right, she’s not a murderer. But she’s hard, and she’s manipulative. And she always had a reason for everything she did.”

“Including seducing one of her husband’s students?”

“I was one of her students as well.” It was Stephen’s turn to sigh. “It was a long time ago, Ryan. I was young, inexperienced. She was older. I thought she knew it all. I admired her. We all did.”

His hand started to move again, his thumb rubbing gently over the tip of Ryan’s cock, collecting a bead of moisture and smoothing it round in circles, slick and slow.

“Does Cutter know?” Not according to the reports, he didn’t, but even Lester’s spooks weren’t infallible.

He felt the shake of Stephen’s head. “It started one summer. We were on a field trip in the Atlas Mountains. Six of us. Nick was in America with another group. I think by the time we got back Helen was already losing interest, but it took me a long time to realise that.” His hand gripped Ryan tighter, and the soldier thrust forward reflexively.

“Did you love her?”

“I was twenty two, for Christ’s sake. Of course I thought I loved her.”

His fingers tightened again and Ryan drew in a sharp breath. It was starting to feel good. Very good. Hart’s other hand drifted up Ryan’s chest and fingertips brushed across taut nipples.

“So what happened next?”

Stephen shrugged. “Not a lot. I slept with her a few times during that year. Whenever she wanted to. Mainly when Nick was away.”

“And then she found a new favourite?”

You’ve read the reports, thought Stephen. You knew about the affair when you got me to go down on you in front of her, you bastard. Aloud he said, “It was a pattern with her. I realised that eventually. She had a hunter’s instincts, Ryan, but it was the chase she enjoyed.”

“So why marry Cutter?”

Stephen shrugged, “To prove she could? You’ll have to ask her that one, not me but I warn you, she wasn’t big on talking about herself.” But she’d been good at complaining about others. It’d been her way of keeping her toy boys in line. Telling them what she did and didn’t like in others, just so they knew what they needed to do to win her approval.

Stephen even remembered the night she’d dropped his successor, on the last night of a field trip to the South Coast. It had been his shoulder the guy had chosen to cry on, metaphorically and eventually literally. But having coffee with Nick in the office the following day had been the worst thing. After that he’d given Helen a wide berth for a while. Much to her amusement.

And just to prove she could, she’d had him one last time, two weeks before her disappearance. And Stephen had hated himself all over again.

With his hands still stroking Ryan, he told him about that final time, whispering the words into his lover’s neck, glad to be able to hide his face as he described how Helen had simply marched into the office one day while Nick was lecturing and had swivelled his chair around from the desk then straddled him, undoing the buttons of her own shirt, proving that, as usual, she was bra-less underneath.

He’d protested that she hadn’t locked the door, that someone, anyone, could walk in. She’d laughed and in one quick movement, she’d unzipped him and had proved that whether he liked it or not, he’d still do her bidding. She’d obviously intended this when she’d put on a short khaki skirt that morning, in place of her usual trousers or shorts. She’d settled onto him with no preliminaries, making sure she got exactly what she wanted, and quickly, the way she liked it.

At one point, there’d even been a knock on the door. Stephen had jumped like a startled deer, causing her to gasp in pleasure, then with his eyes closed against the inevitable discovery, he’d heard her calm voice simply telling whoever it was to go away, she was busy. A second later, she’d climaxed, biting his neck hard. Marking him with her teeth.

He hadn’t come, but she’d dealt with that with her customary efficiency as well, before cleaning herself up, discarding the tissues casually into the waste paper bin next to Nick’s desk and throwing a handful at him for the same purpose, before she’d calmly sauntered over to her own desk and started working.

Nick had arrived back less than five minutes later, while Stephen’s heart was still thumping uncomfortably. He hadn’t been able to meet his friend’s eyes.

While Stephen had been telling the story, his hand had continued the same slow, rhythmic strokes, pausing every now and then to gather the moisture leaking from Ryan’s tip and use it to smooth his movements. Ryan had done his best to keep his breathing steady and his hips still, not wanting to disturb what was clearly some sort of confession.

The confession of a man who still felt guilty for fucking his best friend’s wife. And who, for the last eight years had carried the mixed-up baggage of that guilt, dragging it with him into every relationship. Unspoken, but no less damaging for that. Ryan guessed that he was the only person Hart had ever confided in.

The soldier let his breath slide out of his throat in one long, ragged gasp. He was close to the edge and it felt good, good in a way that only Hart had made him feel for longer than he cared to remember. Behind him, his lover stirred and nuzzled at the back of his neck, breath warm and tickling. Fingertips grazed his nipples at the same time as a thumb slicked across his tip again and that was enough. Ryan jerked and moaned, turning his head to capture Stephen’s lips, twisting so that their bodies pressed together, tongues entwined, as small shivers ran through Ryan’s body and Hart’s hands, damp and sticky, roamed over his back.

Ryan’s kiss was soft, and for once, undemanding. “It’s been a bad day, and I don’t feel up to much, but if you promise to use enough oil, you can fuck me senseless and make as much noise as you want. And I promise I won’t complain.”

Stephen grinned into the darkness. “Lester said I’d probably need to hit you over the head with a brick to get you to sleep, but I suppose fucking you senseless would be more fun……….but possibly not quieter.”

Half an hour later, as the two men settled comfortably into each other’s arms, Ryan drew his head back a faction, and breathed into his lover’s mouth, “She sounds like my ex-wife. A right bitch.”

* * *

The next two days were no easier. And got them no further forward. They’d spent the days, and nights, still combing the forest, widening the search area.

Ryan still refused to let any news of what had happened get back to the missing man’s wife. Lester still wanted to know at what point he would declare the man lost. Cutter still declared that his wife was not a murderer. Stephen still said nothing. It made for tense meals and even tenser evenings.

To everyone’s surprise, Lester stayed. He even seemed to be making an effort not to irritate, which was perhaps more surprising. He also made no complaint about the bar bills, which was nothing short of miraculous.

The Special Forces teams worked a strict rota: one group patrolling the Forest; one on stand-by, which meant sober; the third off duty, which meant drunk.

Cutter and Lester had developed a routine which seemed to consist mainly of staring at maps, drinking coffee and arguing. Stephen left them to it and spent most of his time in the Forest with the various teams, checking the vicinity of every known anomaly site on a daily basis for fresh footprints. There had been a brief flurry of activity on the Saturday morning when Stringer’s team had found fresh prints leading away from one site and Stephen had been hastily summoned to check the area. It had taken two hours, but he’d finally followed the tracks to a woman taking photographs of trees. They’d even managed to exit from that encounter without a diplomatic incident, which was a distinct improvement.

They were up to six complaints now.

* * *

Stephen ran a towel across his hair and wandered naked into the bedroom at exactly the moment that the door opened and Captain Stringer walked in, balancing three coffee mugs.

This wasn’t exactly an unusual event. Ryan’s officers were starting to treat the bedroom as their own private Command Room, where they could talk without being overheard, and vent their frustrations without having to remain positive in front of their men. But even though they invariably arrived unannounced, they usually came bearing either coffee or alcohol, or sometimes both.

Stephen accepted the coffee with a nod of thanks and went in search of his clothes. He’d given up expecting either Stringer or Lyle to knock and wait for a reply, and he’d got used to them interrupting a range of off-duty activities, from reading the paper, to sleeping, to shagging, so wandering around naked in front of the other man didn’t even reach the first rung of his personal embarrassment scale any more.

Joel Stringer was about Lyle’s age, he guessed, early thirties or thereabouts. Dark haired and good looking, with a permanent growth of stubble that stopped only just short of a beard. He wore his hair longer than the rest of the Special Forces soldiers and spoke with the sort of cut-glass accent that only came from a very expensive education. He was also capable of swearing with an inventive vulgarity that occasionally made even Ryan raise his eyebrows in surprise.

Much to Stephen’s amusement, the Mitchell kids had taken to hanging around Stringer when they could get away with it, just in the hope of hearing some new profanity to add to their growing list of things not to repeat at school.

“Lyle says his thumbs are pricking,” Stringer announced, plonking a mug down on the bedside table next to Ryan, who was sprawled out reading a book.

Ryan sniffed the coffee appreciatively, noticing a generous slug of whisky had been added. Glancing at the bedside clock re remarked, “He’s on edge because of the dive. They were due to start around now.”

Stringer shook his head. “He claims it’s nothing to do with that. Although I’m inclined to agree with you. I’ve told him I’ll take his shift if he wants to go down for the push rather than hanging around here.”

“We can do without both him and Ditzy if they need more back-up divers underground. Let’s face it, we haven’t caught even a whiff of an anomaly since we lost Kermit. I doubt having Lyle and a couple of his lot out of contact for a few hours will make a sodding bit of difference. Tell him I’ll square it with Lester if there’s any whining.”

“The Witch King’s already told him the same thing. The guy’s displaying worrying signs of mutating into something closely resembling a human being.”

Stephen pulled on his jeans and commented, “Lyle’s thumbs were right the night of the T rex incident.”

“And I’m not saying they’re wrong now,” said Stringer, “but his mad mates and their equally suicidal dive are still the most likely candidates for being the cause of his digital discomfort.”

Ryan slid his legs off the bed and bent down to drag on his boots. “Come on, we’ll never hear the last of it if we stay here and he turns out to be right. But my money’s still on the Devil’s Crowll trip being the culprit.”

In less than five minutes they’d drunk the coffee, kitted up, grabbed their weapons and were clattering down the stairs as Cutter came out of the makeshift office, having been through the same thought processes as the Special Forces officers. As they arrived downstairs he was pulling on his jacket, and remarking with a backward glance over his shoulder, “You’re probably right, but it’s better than spending another afternoon sat on my arse.”

Cutter thought of suggesting Lester came with them, but one look at man’s immaculate and no doubt horrendously expensive suit told him it was a waste of time. The only occasions he’d ever seen Lester remove even his jacket had been after midnight. And he’d never been seen without his tie. The very idea was unthinkable.

They were all on their way out of the door as the phone on the reception desk rang. Jim Mitchell picked it up. A second later, he yelled, “Ryan, it’s Lyle. He says their radios are fouled up!”

Ryan turned, saw Mitchell holding out the phone, and started to run back up the steps, narrowly beating Lester to the desk. There was usually only one reason their radios fouled up around here.

He grabbed the handset, a look of almost fierce intensity on his face.

“Alive?” But it was more of a statement than a question.

Stephen started to smile. 

Ryan put the phone down and just for the barest moment allowed his eyes to close in relief.

Then they all started to smile.

* * *

No more than two miles away, Lyle was smiling as well. 

But at the same time he continued to massage the prickly itch that was still tormenting his thumbs.


	3. Chapter 3

Darren Cooper, known to his unit as Kermit, rubbed his wrists and grimaced as the medic, who generally answered to the name of Ditzy, shone a pencil torch in his eyes.

“Probably nothing worse than sleeping tablets. Don’t drink for the next twelve hours.”

“Fuck off,” Kermit muttered, swiping a pint of beer off the table next to him and cradling it protectively.

The medic grinned and remarked, “He’ll live. He’s got a lump on his head where his lady-friend slugged him, lacerations and bruises on his wrists from the cable ties and I confidently predict he’ll have a headache tomorrow. But that’ll be from mixing booze with pills and refusing to follow good advice.”

“Since when has anyone ever followed your advice when it comes to not mixing pills with booze?” asked Lyle. “You don’t even follow your own sodding advice!”

Ditzy grinned, picked up his bag and sauntered out of the office, presuming correctly that his services were no longer required. That left the three officers, plus Lester, Stephen and Cutter, all staring expectantly at the prodigal soldier, who looked uncomfortable, shuffled his feet and clutched the beer glass even harder.

“Sorry, sir,” he muttered. “I was too close to stop. It just fucking appeared, right in front of me, then a second later I was through it and she thumped me on the back of the head before I even had chance to realize where I was.”

“So when were you, man?” interrupted Cutter. “What did it look like? What did she say?”

Ryan held up a warning hand, “Easy, Professor. This isn’t the way to do a de-brief. Too many questions, and I stop this and clear the room, OK?”

It was clearly anything but OK, but for once, Cutter didn’t argue.

The captain waved a hand for his soldier to continue.

“She called it the Cretaceous. I came round in a sort of cave-like overhang in a cliff……... she’d cable-tied my wrists and ankles. It was warm……... warmer than here in a hot summer. There was a forest of bloody great big monkey puzzle trees everywhere. And sodding great big insects………..dragonflies as long as your forearm………..”

He talked for nearly an hour, hesitantly at first, then growing in confidence in the face of Ryan’s strictly enforced minimal interruptions policy.

He hadn’t seen anything of Helen for the first half day. He’d led in the shade of the cliff, hot and by his own admission, scared. Tethered by a length of rope to a tree. When she’d finally come back, he’d been dying for a pee, and a drink, in that order. She’d helped with both, but had refused to untie his hands. Which had been awkward as they were tied behind his back, not in front of it.

Stephen carefully avoided Ryan’s eyes.

She’d kept him secured the whole time. She hadn’t said a lot and what she had said hadn’t been terribly comforting. She claimed not to know whether there was any way of getting him back to his own time but knowing the history of her appearances and disappearances, as all the teams did, he hadn’t let that rattle him too much, although there was still something deeply unnerving about being stuck in the past. It was clear than no-one in the room took issue with that statement.

She’d provided fresh water. She’d fed him. (Why did all weird reptile things tend to taste like chicken? Even Cutter hadn’t been able to answer that one.) She’d assisted with necessary bodily functions without embarrassment or comment, but she hadn’t freed his hands or feet, which had made for some interesting contortions. There’d been nothing he could use to saw at the plastic ties with. She’d made sure of that. And his weapons and his tac vest were still somewhere in the Cretaceous. He’d glanced apologetically in Ryan’s direction.

On the third day, she’d fed him as usual and he’d noticed afterwards that he was feeling more tired than usual, and thirstier. That had also been the day when he’d started to think he stood a chance of getting back home.

In the face of the inevitable question from Cutter, Kermit looked uncomfortable again but at a nod from Ryan he continued. “She told me she had some messages she wanted me to take. That made me think I was coming back.”

“What does she think her fucking name is, Galadriel?” muttered Lyle.

Kermit grinned. “She didn’t say anything about not chopping down trees, sir.”

“So what did she say?” asked Lester, speaking for the first time in over an hour.

The soldier elevated the art of looking uncomfortable to new heights. It took a glare from Ryan to get him to continue. Staring at a point somewhere behind his captain’s left ear he replied, still hesitantly, “She said, Tell them, Thanks, boys, it was a good show.” His eyes flickered over to Lyle, and somewhat less hesitantly he added, “She said to tell you to take up a safer hobby, sir.”

“What else, man?” demanded Cutter, ignoring Ryan’s warning glance and leaning forward, his blue eyes pale and intense. “What else did she say?”

Kermit shook his head. “Nothing, Professor. I’m sorry. That was all she told me to say.”

Before Cutter could say anything else, Ryan gave Lester a hard stare, and received a slight nod in return. The Special Forces captain slid his own untouched beer over to Kermit. “We’ll talk again tomorrow. Go and get drunk.” He gave Kermit’s shoulder a quick squeeze, “Welcome back, lad. And next time, stop a bit fucking quicker, OK?”

The soldier accepted the full pint with a grin. “Can I call my wife, sir?”

Lester opened his mouth to reply, but Ryan beat him to it. “Yes, but she knows nothing about this and it stays that way.”

In response to the barest flicker of Ryan’s grey eyes, Joel Stringer followed a grateful Kermit out of the room.

Once the door had closed behind the two men, Lester leant back in his chair and looked at Ryan, “So, what isn’t he telling us, Captain?”

The Special Forces leader studiously avoided Cutter’s eyes. “At a guess, sir, and with all due respect to the Professor, I’d say she did more than just help him take a piss. It’s a fair bet she fucked him.”

Lester sighed, ignoring the look of incredulity that was rapidly losing a war with horror and disbelief on Cutter’s lean features. “Do they still call it Stockholm Syndrome?”

Ryan shook his head, glad of the excuse to keep ignoring Cutter, “Our shrinks tend to refer to it as capture-bonding, sir. They’ll worm the full story out of him, but they aren’t fast. I’ll get Stringer to talk to him tomorrow. He’s done the courses. I’ll need to send Cooper back to HQ after. We can’t use him on this op now. I’ll get a replacement sent down.”

“Helen is not the enemy!” Cutter exploded.

Well, I wouldn’t call her behavior exactly friendly, thought Ryan. But that’s irrelevant. If I’m right, and she’s fucked the lad, then I can’t trust him to put a bullet in her if push comes to shove. That’s all there is to it.

“Calm down, Cutter,” Lester interjected smoothly, “It’s standard procedure after an incident like this.”

Lester found it interesting that Cutter hadn’t seemed to react at all to the suggestion that his (ex?) wife might have had sex with the unfortunate soldier. He also noted that Hart was strenuously refusing to make eye contact with either Cutter or Ryan. He mused wryly on the fact that a psychologist could write an entire paper just on the current social interaction in one fairly small room. “And the comment about Lieutenant Lyle’s hobby? Can anyone explain that?”

Ryan grinned, “Well it’s not his job that prevents him getting life insurance at standard rates, that’s for sure. He goes caving, sir. Most of his team do. On top of that, Lyle’s a cave-diver. Even I think that’s bloody suicidal.”

“And here I was thinking they were practicing formation mud-wrestling in their spare time,” muttered Sir James Lester. “Thank you for enlightening me, Captain.” Does he really think I’ve been oblivious to the last few days worth of bar-room conversation? And more to the point, does anyone really think Helen Cutter would send nothing more than a casual remark back from the Cretaceous?

A moment later the door opened and Joel Stringer appeared again, Jim Mitchell hovering behind him, looking concerned.

“Excuse the interruption, Sir James,” the captain drawled, his accent entirely the equal of Lester’s, “Jim needs a word with Lyle.”

Without waiting for a response, the other man followed him into the room, talking rapidly, “Jon, sorry, we’ve had a call from South Wales. There’s a rescue. Any chance you and the others could go on standby?”

“What and where?” Lyle asked, glancing at Ryan.

The Special Forces leader shrugged, wondering what was coming next. Would this explain Helen Cutter’s message?

“Broken leg at the far end of Southern Stream in Aggie.”

“Shit.” That was about as far from the surface as you could get. It was also nowhere near the Forest. “What’s the score?”

“There’s a team from Gwent C.R.T. on their way in, they’ve got a doctor with them. Our lot are on their way over and they’re calling out Mendip as well, but it’s going to be a long one. They need as many people ready to go over as possible. And they might need more medics.”

Lyle looked at Lester and was surprised to see both understanding and concern flicker across the man’s normally impassive features. The lieutenant started to explain, “It’s a bad place for an accident, sir, it’s ……..”

The civil servant held up a hand to stop him and asked, “Captains, can your teams cover whatever we might need here?” The pair exchanged nods. “Then do what’s needed, Lyle.”

Jim Mitchell completely failed to disguise his look of surprise and relief.

Lyle went off to start working out who needed to be sobered up. Stringer followed, leaving Ryan trying to decide how to stage a strategic withdrawal from the increasingly tense atmosphere of the office. He really didn’t feel like any more discussions about Cutter’s wife, her sexual predilections or her motives. The woman was in danger of giving him a nosebleed and for someone who was probably in a different era at the moment, that was pretty good going.

Lester flicked open his phone. A moment later, “Ms Brown? I’d appreciate your assistance in the Forest. We’re at the hotel. I’d be obliged if you’d arrange to collect Dr Maitland and Mr. Temple on your way. Yes, I consider a full team to be advisable. No, conventional transport will be sufficient.”

Cutter rubbed a hand across his eyes and traded puzzled looks with Stephen. “Have the rest of us just missed something?”

Stephen shrugged. Even Ryan looked puzzled.

Lester smiled but didn’t bother to elaborate. He just hoped he was wrong.

* * *

After an hour of difficult conversation with Cutter, Lester had started to change his mind. Even another emergency would be preferable to this.

The man was so deep in denial that he was in danger of losing a grip on reality. And from the look on Hart’s face he could see he wasn’t the only one thinking that. Did absence really make the heart grow fonder? Lester seriously doubted it, but maybe Cutter had spent so long chasing a dream that he just wasn’t ready yet to wake up and smell the shit.

Lester announced that he needed to talk to Ryan and left them to it. He ignored the poisonous look Hart shot after him. The man should be grateful to him. Why else did Hart think he’d summoned Claudia Brown? Cutter could cry on her shoulder if he needed to. It might give the rest of them some peace. She was also better at dealing with the inevitable public relations disasters that Ryan’s men had a habit of leaving in their wake. The captain was good at his job, but there were times when he lacked subtlety. The last few days had been one of those times

The only drinks in evidence in the bar now were non-alcoholic and Lester gratefully accepted the coffee that Mary Mitchell brought him. He noticed she’d slipped some whisky into it. It seemed to be a habit round here, but he wasn’t grumbling. He also noticed the fact that she was glancing at the clock every few minutes.

A CD was playing in the background, the music strangely haunting.

A moment later his own fingers started to prickle as he made out the words ……..

Now it’s Wednesday night in Amlwch town  
Which means that it’s time to head on down  
To the damp and the darkness all around  
In the Parys Mountain Mine.  
There’s manky timbers everywhere  
And the mud and the grot get in your hair  
But there’s sights to see beyond compare  
In the Parys Mountain Mine.

So let’s all take our headlamp’s glow  
Where the moonlight never shines  
And we’ll sing this song as down we go  
To the stopes and the levels far below  
Where the mud lies thick and the waters flow  
In the Parys Mountain mine.

The words weaved seductively around in his head, taking him back to places he’d not thought about in years ………where the moonlight never shines………….

He saw Mary Mitchell glance at the clock again.

Abruptly he asked, “What’s the call out time for the Devil’s Crowll dive, Mary?”

She looked at her watch, as though hoping it would tell her something different from the clock. “Five minutes time.”

Apart from the CD playing quietly, the bar was strangely quiet. He could see Lyle leaning against the window, staring out into the gathering shadows of early evening. Rubbing his thumbs.

The hairs on the back of Lester’s neck started to rise.

To the stopes and the levels far below ……

Two minutes was cutting it bloody fine to stand down a call out.

Helen Cutter hadn’t been talking about a rescue in Agen Allwedd. He was willing to bet his knighthood on that.


	4. Chapter 4

The Hotel. 8pm  
So let’s all take our headlamp’s glow  
Where the moonlight never shines  
And we’ll sing this song as down we go  
To the stopes and the levels far below  
Where the mud lies thick and the waters flow  
In the Parys Mountain mine.

Lyle pushed himself away from the window as the hands of the clock moved inexorably into position. “Jim!”

Jim Mitchell looked at his own watch and nodded. “I’ll put the call into the police and then take it from there.”

The call out needed to go through the police for insurance reasons but as a Rescue Warden for the area, Jim could then take control. And he knew he was the only Warden left unoccupied in their area anyway. Everyone else had started to head over to South Wales for the Aggie rescue, which was shaping up to be a long one.

Lyle sighed. He’d been expecting this all sodding day. Even though he’d hoped against hope that they’d only have to deal with something nice and normal, like another T. rex or something similar. For a brief moment, when they’d found Kermit, he’d thought their problems were over for the day, but his thumbs had soon told him otherwise. There was just something about the Devil’s Crowll that wasn’t conducive to his peace of mind. He’d known from the start that this dive was jinxed.

By the look of it, the Agen Allwedd accident had been wholly coincidental. Christ, he hated coincidences. Actually, he wasn’t even sure he believed in coincidences. Maybe he just hated Helen Cutter? She knew something, that much was obvious. So it couldn’t just be something simple, like a broken leg. Not with her involved. So what the fuck had happened down the Crowll?

But if she’d wanted to be helpful, why the hell couldn’t she be less cryptic and just tell them what was going one? They had enough hassle here, without her fucking around with people seemingly for the fun of it.

“Our kit’s ready, do you want us to go down?”

Jim nodded and went to make the call, his face grim.

Mary reached for her mobile. “I’ll tell the Gwent Controller they’ve just lost a back-up team. If they’re short of people for Aggie, they’ll have to put Derbyshire or the North on stand-by.” As Lyle headed for the door, she added, “And be careful!”

Lyle grinned. “We’ll do our best.”

Hearing two cars drive off, Cutter and Stephen appeared, eyebrows raised. Lester left it to Ryan to explain. There was still a chance this wouldn’t all end in tears. But it was a bloody small chance ………and in his opinion that chance was dangling from the end of a very frayed rope……

 

The Devil’s Crowll. 8.15 pm

The entrance was located at the base of a low cliff in one of the many scowles after which this particular part of the Forest was named. Depressions left by ancient outcrop workings, the name coming maybe from the Welsh word ysgil, meaning recess, or maybe from the Old English crowll, for cave. No-one could say for sure.

And no-one could say where this particular name had come from either, but what they did know was that of all the workings in the area, this was undoubtedly the oldest. The hammer-stones of the Iron Age had first helped men gouge and break the ore from the rocks here. The Romans followed and deepened the workings, digging down and ever down, throwing up their slag heaps onto the surface, far and wide, like an army of busy, untidy moles. Attracted to the area by the presence of the yew trees, so often found inextricably linked with the prized iron ore.

The entrance was guarded now by a stainless steel gate, secured with a heavy padlock. Lyle had the key in his hand as he and the others headed up the muddy track. Determined not to waste any time, they’d gone equipped with basic rescue gear, a drag-sheet which could be used to carry a casualty if needed and various other items of emergency kit. And because Lyle wasn’t the type to take chances, he and Ditzy both carried their M4s. They were stowed inside modified tackle bags, so he hoped the rifles wouldn’t be needed in too much of a hurry, but he preferred to be safe rather than sorry. And alive rather than dead.

If the problems were diving related, there was a complete set of spare kit at the sump, but successful cave diving rescues were as rare a rocking-horse shit. It just wasn’t that sort of sport.

The gate swung easily on its hinges. It should do, the amount of use it had seen recently. Lyle himself had done five trips down here in the last two weeks, spending almost all of his free time underground. They were close, so close, to connecting The Devil’s Crowll to the biggest complex of mines in the Forest, including Clearwell, Old Ham Gale and Old Bow Pit. With the Crowll linked in, it would give nearly two hundred miles of passage.

Lyle switched his head-torch on, and was about to slither through the entrance when a noise underground drew his attention. He stopped, head cocked on one side like a dog, listening. It came again: the scrape of an oversuit against the walls of the narrow entrance passage. He started to smile. The bastards were late! Had the Devil’s Crowll finally given up its secrets?

He yelled down the entrance, voice echoing into the depths, “You’re fucking late! Did it go?”

All he heard in return was the rasping sound of labored breathing, hard and broken. The sound of someone who had pushed themselves beyond endurance almost to the point of collapse. Painful, ragged. And getting closer.

And no-one was surprised when Lyle swung the tackle bag round and grabbed for his M4, going down on one knee and pointing the rifle barrel towards the entrance.

A gloved hand reached out from inside the mine, grasped the steel frame of the gate and a second later, a head appeared, helmet encrusted with mud. The UPVC oversuit may have started life bright yellow, but that certainly wasn’t obvious now. The suit’s owner gave one final heave and ended up sprawled amidst the leaf-mould littering the floor of the scowle. Panting and gasping.

The man looked up, face smeared with red mud, but underneath as white as the lilies on a wreath, “They’re dead, Jon, they’re fucking dead ……….”

Lyle swung the gun over his shoulder and hauled the man to his feet, “Who? What’s happened?”

The caver shook his head, “Don’t know if the fucking things can climb or not, didn’t want to stay to find out ………get Neil, he’s behind me ……..shoulder ……….dislocated ....”

Without waiting for an order, Ditzy grabbed the tackle-bag with his medical kit and was gone. At a nod from Lyle, two others followed. “Get him out, get back, no heroics! If anything else moves, kill it!” He threw the M4 at the last guy down. At least the guns were good in crap conditions, even if they hadn’t actually been designed with thick, red mud in mind.

 

The Devil’s Crowll. 8.25 pm

With one sharp tug, Ditzy got the shoulder joint back in place. Neil Dwyer swore luridly, then stuck his head between his knees, senses swimming unpleasantly, fainting an all too real possibility.

When he looked up, rivulets of sweat ran down through the mud on his face, dripping onto a bare, filthy chest. They’d stripped both oversuit and undersuit down to his waist to let the medic do his work. He’d yelled. They’d ignored him. He’d sworn. They’d ignored that as well.

Rob Morgan leant against the cliff face, helmet dangling by its strap from his hand, feeling dazed and sick. But he was alive. That was something he really hadn’t expected.

He didn’t know what they’d disturbed in the Crowll, but whatever it was appeared to have killed two divers and destroyed the base camp. And he had no idea whether it could climb ladders or not, but he hadn’t wanted to hang around and find out. Neither of them had. Probably the only thing which hadn’t surprised him about the last five hours was dragging himself out into a rapidly fading twilight and finding himself staring into the barrel of an assault rifle. That had actually been quite comforting.

Lyle squeezed his shoulder, “Come on, let’s get you two back to the hotel. We can talk there.”

Morgan’s eyes were still wide and scared, “Just fucking shoot anything that tries to get out of that hole, Jon.”

Lyle’s face was that of a man who had looked death in the eye all too often down the barrel of a gun. He nodded to the two guys he was leaving behind. “You heard,” he said. “Just do it.”

 

The Hotel. 9.00 pm

“So you didn’t actually see the bodies?” Cutter leant forward, as intense as ever when dealing with anything related to the Anomalies. “What makes you so sure both of the others are dead?”

“The sump was red. It looked like someone had emptied a gallon of rhodamine into it.” Morgan spoke through his hands, knuckles pressed into his eyes as though that would somehow force the memories away. “Too much blood for one person. Too red. Just too fucking much of it.”

Lyle raised his eyebrows. In his experience, the average person had no idea how much blood the human body contained. Nor did they generally know what it looked like when someone bled out in water. He’d seen it, and it wasn’t nice. But it was also equally possible that one person could produce enough blood to make the sump pool look like the aftermath of a dye-tracing experiment.

“Describe what you saw at the camp again,” said Cutter, with more patience than he usually employed when questioning a witness, desperate to try and extract details that they could work with. “Did you see any footprints?”

Morgan shook his head, still covering his eyes. “It was a mess. The tarpaulin we’d been using to sit on was in shreds, the kit bags had been strewn around, stuff everywhere, like some sort of bloody great big dog had grabbed them and shaken them around. One was torn in half. The mud was too churned up to see prints and to be honest, we weren’t looking that hard.”

“So what did you think had happened?”

The caver dropped his hands and met Cutter’s eyes for the first time. “I live in the Forest, mate, I knew what had happened, but we’ve never had the bastard things underground before. We all thought we were safe underground! But Jesus, now we know where the fuckin’ name comes from, don’t we?”

“Yeh, maybe we do.” Lyle looked at Cutter. “Professor, we’ve heard Rob’s story every which ways round. He needs some rest now.” His eyes flickered over to Ditzy, wondering how long it would take for the sedative they’d laced Morgan’s last coffee with to take effect.

The medic stretched his hand out against his thigh and opened and closed his fist twice. Ten minutes.

Lester leaned forward, his lean face contriving to give an impression of both sympathy and sincerity. “Lyle’s right, Mr. Morgan. Get cleaned up and get some rest. We’ll let you know if anything happens.” Like hell we will. And if the instructions he’d given had been followed, this guy would be joining his friend in a dreamless sleep for the next eight hours at least.

When Morgan had left the room, Lyle’s hazel eyes focused on Lester, the challenge in them not even disguised. “Sir, if there’s even a remote chance that one of the guys could have survived, I’m going back down.”

Lester sighed.

It was left to Cutter to comment, “Lyle, even I think it’s crazy to go back down with the Creature from the Black Lagoon rampaging around underground. Let the anomaly fade. The chances are whatever it is will go back through. Most of them do.”

“And what if either Shaw or Dennett is alive? What then, sir? What if one of them got into an air pocket? Even worse, what if one of them went through the fucking anomaly?” They’d lost a man that way already. Lyle didn’t want to lose another. Not if he could help it.

“If they’re in an air bell on this side of the anomaly then they can swim back when there’s nothing around to eat them!” Even to Cutter it sounded feeble, but this was one occasion when he really did think discretion was the better part of valor.

“The camp was trashed so you can bet the diving line didn’t survive. Without that to follow there’s no way back. It’s a fucking underwater maze down there and even if anyone did reach a dry area there are parts of the lower levels where the air itself is shite, too high in Co2 for anyone to last too long. We haven’t the time just to sit here arguing.” He looked at Lester again, “Sir?”

“Do any of your men dive, Lieutenant?”

Lyle shook his head. “It’s no big deal, cave diving’s a solo activity most of the time anyway. I’ll take two of the lads with me in case something’s still around in open air down there. Volunteers only.” This time he looked at Ryan.

The Special Forces leader shrugged. This one wasn’t his call. Lester had control of what they did now. But he knew that if the Home Office man gave the go ahead, Lyle wouldn’t lack company on whatever crazy trip he had in mind. Cavers were like soldiers, in his experience. If there was a chance their mates were still alive, they’d go, no matter what the odds were like. And the lads knew from their own bitter experiences how much blood one body could produce, so they’d reach the same conclusion Lyle had.

It might be a fucking slim chance, but it still existed.

Everyone in the room was now looking at Lester.

When he spoke, the man’s voice was quiet, almost detached and a long way from his normal brand of icy sarcasm. “When I last looked, you seemed to have at least half of the Combined Services Caving Association’s kit store round the back of the hotel. Is there a wet suit that would fit me?”

He’d said it now. There was no going back. And Sir James Lester had to admit, it was worth it for the look on Cutter’s face. And Ryan’s for that matter.

The only one who didn’t look entirely like he’d just been transported to a parallel dimension was Lyle himself. The soldier’s eyes widened slightly but all he said was, “The Devil’s Crowll’s no place for novices or open-water divers, sir.”

The look Lester traded with the soldier was unflinching. “My younger brother sometimes teaches at the Camborne School of Mines, Lieutenant Lyle. I’ve dived with him in some of the sites in Copper Mines Valley and a few other places. It was a long time ago, but I suspect even I might be better than nothing for back-up.”

Lyle still looked dubious. “It’s not an easy trip to the sump. Four hours, and that’s if you’re moving fast. Five pitches, the longest is 25 meters and it’s a shit climb. We tend to self-line. It isn’t a trip for novices.”

“My last trip was Croesor-Rhosydd. Is that good enough for you?” He carefully didn’t mention that it had been ten years ago and he’d been scared shitless for most of the nine hours he’d spent in the disused slate mine.

The soldier whistled through his teeth, and a slow smile started to spread across his handsome face. “You’re Ralph Lester’s brother, aren’t you?”

The civil servant sighed. He’d hoped to avoid going into this much detail. He had a reputation to maintain, after all. And as he’d just heard a helicopter land outside, he had a nasty feeling his assistant and the rest of Cutter’s team had arrived to join the party. What part of conventional transport will be sufficient, hadn’t she understood?

Lester nodded. His expression still strictly neutral.

Lyle’s smile turned into a grin. “I think we’ve got something that’ll fit you, sir.”

 

The Hotel. 9.20pm

Claudia Brown raised a shapely eyebrow in Cutter’s direction. “Nick, you are not serious?”

Cutter shrugged helplessly, “I think Ryan’s already tried the You are an alien, what have you done with Sir James Lester? routine. Apparently it didn’t work. Lester just gave him the same supercilious look we’ve all come to know and love. No alien could replicate that.”

Claudia had to agree. It was the same look he’d given her when he’d asked in passing what part of their budget she thought her transport arrangements were going to come out of.

“Lester putting on a wetsuit and wallowing around in mud?” The look on Connor’s face hovered somewhere between incredulous and delighted, in spite of the situation, and he headed off outside just to make sure it wasn’t some sort of elaborate hoax.

Round the back of the hotel, floodlit in the dark, there was more gear strewn around on the gravel than even Special Forces normally traveled with. And only part of it consisted of things that went bang. Connor wasn’t even sure what the majority of it was for and most people seemed too busy to enlighten him, so he just contented himself with making sure that no-one had been lying to him.

And they hadn’t lied. They sure as hell hadn’t lied! He’d arrived just in time to see Lester stripping off his immaculate pinstriped suit and draping it over the back of a broken chair. The tie and ghostly white shirt had followed.

Abby saw Connor’s lips pursing for a whistle and elbowed him sharply in the ribs. The whistle turned into a cross between a hiccup and a belch. Abby Maitland grinned into the darkness. She knew how her friend felt, but some things just weren’t appropriate, not at a time like this. But as ever, it took Connor to say what everyone else was thinking when a moment later, he breathed with awed delight, “Oh my God, are those silk boxers?”

Lyle paused in the act of dragging on his own wetsuit to take a quick glance in the direction of the man who was going to be his back-up diver. Lester looked in better shape than he’d expected. Thin and pale, but wiry, no flab. And he was getting kitted up with a quiet efficiency. The same the sort of quiet efficiency he’d used when examining the diving gear Lyle had laid out for him. He knew how the kit went together, that was for sure.

But Lyle was starting to wonder when the man had last caved. The item of gear Lester had been most surprised by was their LED head torches, which had only started to become common in the last few years. But recent experience or not, beggars couldn’t be choosers. There was no other back-up available quickly, that was for sure. And from what Lyle knew of the Lester brothers, they’d both been hard bastards in their day. Ralph still was, but he hadn’t heard his brother’s name mentioned for a good few years.

Lester wrestled with the neoprene, hauling it up his body, reflecting on the fact that he couldn’t actually remember the last time he’d got dirt under his fingernails, let alone managed to break two of them in quick succession which he’d just done struggling with this bloody wetsuit.

Christ, he hated neoprene! It had been one of the main reasons he’d given up cave and mine diving. That and the fact that as Ryan had remarked, it was a sodding suicidal hobby.

His brother had moved on into a career as a Consultant Geologist and Mineralogist, spending a lot of time abroad and he’d gone into the Civil Service. And a fast-track career in H.M. Government would hardly have been enhanced by his previous habit of groveling around in dark, wet, muddy places most weekends. So he’d drawn a discreet veil over that part of his past and had moved on as well.

But the past had a nasty habit of coming back to haunt you, as it seemed they were all discovering in one way or another.

 

The Hotel. 9.20pm

Lyle chucked the last of the bags into the back of the van.

It was fully dark now, but that didn’t matter a damn where they were going ……….where the moonlight never shines ….….. the song was revolving on a continuous loop in his head, and he found it strangely comforting.

Ryan stepped up and without embarrassment, dragged Lyle into a quick, hard embrace. “This might sound stupid, but don’t take too many risks. I don’t want to have to come down looking for you.”

Lyle’s grin managed to hold genuine humour. “For your sake, I seriously hope it doesn’t come to that, mate. If we’re not back by this time tomorrow, I doubt we’re coming back. So don’t wait up.” He climbed into the back of the van and called cheerfully to his companion, “There’s still time to change your mind!”

“You could have said that before I struggled into the Garment from Hell,” muttered Lester, darkly. He turned to the huddle of people waiting by the door of the hotel, “Try to keep the budget under control in my absence, Ms Brown. And if you could dissuade Captain Ryan for engaging in any more public relations exercises, I would appreciate it.”

Claudia hesitated for a moment and then just as he was about to follow Lyle, she darted forward and planted a quick kiss on Lester’s cheek. It just didn’t seem right to let him go off without some sort of friendly gesture. “Take care, James.”

He gave a slight smile, but there wasn’t enough light for her to see the expression in his dark eyes. “That remains to be seen. But for the sake of the Department, please ensure this doesn’t find it’s way into my obituary, Ms Brown. It would give altogether the wrong impression.”

And with that, he climbed into the van and pulled the door shut, without a backwards glance.

 

The Hotel. Midnight.

With the exception of Ryan and Stringer, the Special Forces soldiers had all retired to bed. Sleep when you can, was their motto. Closely followed at the moment by, If it looks threatening, kill it.

Connor had his lap-top set up at a table and had been glued to the screen for the last two hours, apart from when he’d been trying to wheedle Abby into fetching him coke and crisps. He’d mostly succeeded, in spite of her grumbles and it was clear he was too absorbed in his research to even think about going to bed.

Cutter and Claudia Brown were settled on one of the over-stuffed sofas, talking quietly and earnestly and the later it got, the more their personal space issues declined.

Stringer caught Stephen’s eye and grinned, muttering in a low voice. “How long has that been going on?”

“Not sure if either of them think of it as going on yet, so you’re watching evolution in action,” said Stephen quietly.

Stringer’s grin broadened. “Lyle’ll be pleased.”

Stephen looked puzzled. Ryan didn’t.

It was left to Stringer to explain. “Lyle invented most of the nicknames. We call the Professor Aragorn.”

Stephen choked on his drink. Aragorn and Arwen. Connor would love that! When he could drag himself away from his laptop long enough to listen, that is.

And Stephen still didn’t want to ask what his own nickname was.

 

The Hotel. 12.45am.

Stephen sat up in bed. “Ryan, for Chrissake, what do you need to get you to sleep? A drink? A fuck? A long, boring conversation?”

“Sorry,” said the other man, not sounding it. “Ignore me.”

Tricky, since you’re lying there radiating tension and bad temper for the last twenty minutes. I’ve tried touching you, I’ve tried ignoring you. I really might have to try hitting you with a brick if this carries on. “I’ll get you a whisky.” When Ryan didn’t argue, he slid out of bed and went in search of the bottle. Sod it. Empty.

Stifling a yawn, he pulled on his jeans and padded barefoot down the stairs.

Cutter and Claudia had disappeared. Abby was curled up on a sofa, a blanket draped over her and a cushion tucked in the crook of her arm. Connor gave her a goofy look and confided conspiratorially, “She doesn’t want to leave me.”

“Bollocks,” muttered Stringer, still perched on a bar stool. “She fell asleep listening to him chuntering about iron-workings. Someone needs to tell him that gross over-use of the word haematite is no way to impress the ladies.”

“This is all starting to make sense!” protested Connor, loudly enough to make Abby grunt in her sleep and turn over, looking loose limbed and vulnerable. He gave the two men a fierce glare, put a finger to his mouth making a too-loud shushing noise, then pulled the blanket protectively back round her narrow shoulders before continuing his real life love-affair with the internet.

Stephen raised his eyes to the ceiling and went behind the bar in search of a whisky bottle.

Stringer grinned and flickered his eyes in the direction of the stairs, “Edgy?”

“Tense as a fucking high-wire.”

“He’s known Lyle a long time.”

Stephen shot a quick glance at the Special Forces captain.

Stringer laughed, and earned another glare from Connor. “Lyle doesn’t go with men. They’re mates. Nothing more. Ryan cried on Lyle’s shoulder when his bitch of a wife dumped him, but trust me, they don’t shag.”

Stephen grabbed two glasses and poured a generous measure of whisky into each. “So why’s he this bad?”

The soldier shrugged. “He probably reckons there’s a higher than average chance that he’ll end up going underground before this is over and Ryan doesn’t like caving.” In response to Stephen’s questioning look he added, “Bad experience in Afghanistan. Lost most of his unit in an ambush in a disused mine. One guy got taken alive and Ryan had to listen to him being tortured.”

Stephen winced. “What happened?”

“He got him out but took a bullet in the chest in the process.” As an afterthought, Stringer added, “And the mine collapsed. Ryan had to dig their way out. It took two days. Believe me, he really doesn’t like caves or mines.”

What Stringer omitted to mention was the guy Ryan rescued had been blinded. Amongst other things. It had been a long two days. And his light had only lasted one day. But the other guy’s darkness would last a lifetime.

When Stephen returned to the bedroom, Ryan was led on his back, hands linked behind his head, staring at the ceiling.

He wanted to sleep. Craved sleep, in fact. He wasn’t normally cursed with an over-active imagination, but the thought of some bastard creature from the past that didn’t know when to stay extinct ripping some poor unsuspecting bugger apart underground was not something he wanted to think too closely about. But his brain seemed to have mislaid the off button tonight.

Stephen stuck a glass of scotch down on the bedside table, left the bottle next to it, then kicked his jeans off and slid back into bed. For once Ryan didn’t pull him closer. Stephen could feel his companion constantly shifting position, stretching his legs in the hope of driving away the prickling restless feeling that was driving him mad. Nothing worked.

Ryan sighed heavily. He didn’t even fancy a fuck. He drank the scotch in two swallows and poured another. The light was pissing him off as well, so he turned it off, ignoring the fact that his lover had just picked up a book. Hart sighed and said nothing, which irritated him even more.

Stephen put the book down and turned over, facing away from Ryan. There was nothing more guaranteed to wind up someone who’s spoiling for a fight than ignoring them. And he was beginning to think that he would have to take drastic action to break the current deadlock. He positioned himself carefully, skin almost but not quite touching. Ryan took another drink, thumped the glass down and fidgeted for the next ten minutes. Stephen grinned into the darkness, and shifted position again so that his back was pressed against Ryan’s side. He moved his hips slightly, pushing backwards.

Ryan’s leg twitched, but he didn’t draw away this time. After another ten minutes of stretching, sighing and sodding irritating behavior, he settled down on his right side and once again they were almost but not quite touching. Stephen waited another minute then gave a fake-sleepy grunt and squirmed sinuously against Ryan’s cock. This time it wasn’t the other man’s leg which suffered from an involuntary twitch.

The sheer proximity of that much tension and bad temper wasn’t exactly pleasant, but Stephen was determined that one way or another, they were both going to get some sleep and if provoking Ryan into a fuck was his best chance of that, then so be it.

He moved even closer, settling himself against Ryan, feeling hardness and heat. They often slept like this, pressed together, and usually they both enjoyed it, but now he knew he was just contriving to piss the other guy off.

Ryan wanted space and he wasn’t getting it. Stephen wasn’t sure whether he was going to end up getting fucked or thrown onto the floor, but it’d be one or the other, that was for sure.

One more squirm against Ryan’s cock did it and the soldier’s control broke with an irritated grunt. Stephen felt a hand grip his hip, hard. Ryan pulled back, positioned himself with quick, economical movements and started to thrust.

Stephen’s heart rate shot up uncomfortably. What about oil? What about fingers? What about preparation? He opened his mouth to protest and all that came out was a slightly strangled exhalation as Ryan drove forward roughly and inexorably. And. It. Hurt.

They’d joked about this in the past, but the reality was neither sexy nor fun. It. Bloody. Hurt. He was dry. Ryan wasn’t small. This wasn’t a good idea. He tried to pull away, twisting and wriggling. Ryan’s fingers dug hard into his hips and dragged him backwards. Pain ripped through him and wasn’t followed by pleasure. This. Hurt. The male anatomy wasn’t designed with this in mind. Ryan’s right hand wormed under him, getting a grip on his other hipbone, preventing him pulling away.

Then, holding Stephen in a vice-like grip he withdrew slightly. That bloody well hurt just as much. Too much friction. Way. Too. Much. Friction. And it was only a prelude to Ryan driving back into him, hard and fast.

The soldier made a small, satisfied sound in his throat. And the noise flipped a switch somewhere deep inside Stephen. In some dark place that he really didn’t want to visit. The place where pain and pleasure are inextricably confused. It still hurt, but he was starting not to care. Which was bad. And dangerous.

Would Ryan stop if he wanted him to? Stephen wasn’t sure he wanted to find out. What if he asked him to stop and he didn’t? Would their relationship survive that? Would any relationship survive that? Oh shit, this was more than he’d bargained for. He tried to pull away again.

Ryan gave another grunt, this time of annoyance, and rolled his weight over onto Stephen, pushing him from his side onto his stomach, freeing his own hands and allowing his hips a greater range of movement. There was no slick, easy slide of flesh. Every stroke dragged and tearing was an all too real and unpleasant prospect. He felt like fire was being driven deep inside him. His breath was forced out in ragged painful gasps, in time with Ryan’s thrusting. He wanted to yell but pride got in the way.

I will not bite the fucking pillow. That’s just too fucking humiliating!

He twisted his head to one side. How long was the bastard going to last for Chrissake! But he still couldn’t bring himself to say it. To say stop. He didn’t even know if the word would work or not. And he didn’t want to take that final step over a line that might destroy them if Ryan didn’t stop. After all, he’d started this, not Ryan. There was no sense in poking a wolf with a stick and then grumbling when it bit your hand off. He could have just left the guy to toss and turn in the darkness. But no, he’d had to try and be clever. And he’d just have to take the consequences.

And somewhere in a dark, fucked-up corner of his mind, Stephen knew he was enjoying this. Enjoying every agonizing, dry stroke. Holding stubbornly onto every barely suppressed whimper that he was too bloody-minded to allow out of his equally tight, equally dry throat. He knew that he was capable of taking this. Or at least he thought he was. But Ryan hadn’t finished yet and Stephen really didn’t know how much longer he could hold out without trying to call a halt. This. Was. Not. Fun.

Ryan’s strokes were shortening, which was usually a sign he was getting closer to coming. Stephen’s back was wet with sweat, but it was the only sodding place that was slick, that was for sure. He tried to move with the thrusts to reduce the pain. Ryan reacted by grabbing his hips again with both hands and dropping his full weight down. For fuck’s sake the guy was heavy! And he had clearly spent way too many hours doing press-ups and the like. No-one should be able to move like this with recently broken ribs. Bastard!

He wouldn’t yell. He. Would. Not. Yell. He turned his head again and did the next best thing. He sunk his teeth into Ryan’s upper arm, which was the closest thing to his mouth at that particular moment and he bit down, hard. Hard enough to draw blood. The Special Forces leader gasped and slammed into Stephen and finally forced a cry from his throat. Then Ryan gasped as well and what remained of coherent movement broke apart in the sharp pleasure of orgasm. Panting hard, he rolled them both sideways and snaked one hand round to reach for Stephen’s cock.

The slide of a hot hand along his length was rough and well over the edge into too tight, but it felt obscenely good. Stephen reacted with a groan and a jerk and then it was over, and all that he could feel was his own heart thumping in time with Ryan’s, the ragged heaving of the other man’s breathing, and his own barely successful attempts to drag some air into his lungs. He wasn’t even sure if the whimpers he could hear were his own or not.

Ryan held his lover while the aftershocks ran through Hart’s body. Lover? Would he still be able to use that word, or had his loss of control fucked something up between them beyond repair?

He ran his hands up and down Hart’s body, smoothing him the way you would a frightened or injured animal. Trying to stroke away the pain he’d caused. The only thing he was clinging to inside was the fact that the other man hadn’t told him to stop, hadn’t yelled aloud apart from in those last desperate moments, and more to the point, hadn’t tried to kill him in the last few seconds. That was a good sign, wasn’t it?

Ryan slid one hand down to a lean hip, turning Stephen onto his stomach again and pulling out as gently as he could. The movement drew a gasp and a muttered obscenity. He kissed the sweat soaked neck and felt a slight shudder. Hoping it wasn’t revulsion, Ryan tracked slowly down the other man’s spine with mouth and lips, sliding lower, licking and kissing until he reached the twin dimples at the base of Hart’s back, then he prepared to go lower still, hands gentle now, trying to make amends. His own mouth was dry and he reached out and took a mouthful of scotch.

In response to the nuzzling lips finding their way ever lower, Stephen suddenly gave a wholly incongruous chuckle and muttered, “Ryan, I think you’re in danger of taking the whole hurt/comfort routine too far. What you’re about to do gives a whole new meaning to the inadvisability of sharing bodily fluids.” A second later he let out a loud and surprised yelp as a whisky laden tongue reached its destination and stung sharply like a swarm of angry bees. “What the fuck are you playing at!”

“Well, it’s either this or I call Ditzy, and I can assure you all he’ll do is pull on a rubber glove and stick a finger full of antiseptic cream up your arse,” said Ryan, sounding inappropriately reasonable and now somewhat less than contrite. “Alcohol’s a good antiseptic. You don’t want an infection, do you?”

“And who’s fault would it be if I did get one?” demanded Stephen, torn between helpless, painful laughter and a desire to drive his knee into Ryan’s balls.

All he got by way of an answer was more alcohol delivered in a manner that could hardly be described as conventional. Stephen had a horrible feeling that the sheets were starting to suffer as much as he was. But it didn’t hurt quite as much the second time around and eventually, the stinging subsided to a bearable level.

Ryan wriggled into a semi-sitting position, topped the glass up and then pulled Stephen up with him, trying to make them both comfortable. Which for Stephen wasn’t an easy thing to achieve at the moment. He ended up sprawled half across the soldier, lying mostly on his chest, one leg drawn up over Ryan’s thighs.

The sight of Ryan dipping his fingers into the whisky glass drew a muffled protest which was blithely ignored. “Can’t I drink some instead?” said Stephen, plaintively. “I think I’m going into shock.”

Ryan’s soft chuckle in the darkness was all the answer he got, but a moment later the glass was held up to his lips as well.

Stephen knew it wouldn’t be long now before his lover fell asleep.

It had been worth it but it had bloody hurt. And he hadn’t yelled ……………..much.


	5. Chapter 5

The Devil’s Crowll. 1.30am

 

Now the mine began, as we now know  
Four thousand years or more ago  
When the rock succumbed to the hammer-stone’s blow  
In the Parys Mountain Mine.  
And the Romans too came by this way  
Then the Cornish miners had their day  
But now the ghosts and the Knockers hold sway  
In the Parys Mountain Mine

The yell of “Below!” echoed round the chamber. Lester plastered himself back against the wall as a large chunk of mud and rock came hurtling down the pitch, followed, at a slightly more controlled pace, by a tackle bag containing a diving cylinder.

He unclipped the bag from the rope, called, “Rope free!” then continued on into the mine, following Lyle.

Lester had one bag slung over his shoulder and carried the second in his hand. They each had two bags, which made progress damned hard work, but they had to assume that none of the gear left at the sump was useable, so between four of them, they were carrying in enough diving kit for both him and Lyle, plus two assault rifles.

And on top of that, each of them had a Glock pistol. Lester had pointed out acidly that he had no firearms experience. Lyle had simply grinned and shown him how to release the safety catch, telling him that was all he needed to know as any idiot could point it in the right direction and pull the trigger. Sir James Lester hoped he was right. But even more fervently, he hoped he wouldn’t get the chance to find out.

It felt strange to be back underground after so many years. And even stranger to be doing it with a gun attached to his belt. He hoped Lyle was right about the covering being mud-proof. It would need to be, down here.

He’d caved in the Forest of Dean before, as a student, but he’d forgotten how red the mud was. Thick with ochre. Heavy, sticky and desperately adhesive. His boots had turned into objects twice their normal size and weight within the first ten minutes of the trip and stopping to try and clean them was a pointless exercise. He was already feeling the strain of the unaccustomed exercise in his thighs and calves and the extra weight clinging to his feet wasn’t helping.

Descending the thin, flexible, wire ladders carrying a tackle bag on his back, wasn’t his idea of fun either although Lyle was taking no chances and had insisted on using a lifeline, even on the short pitches and to be honest, Lester had been glad of it. The climbs were awkward; broken and muddy and even though he’d done his best not to hang from his arms like a blasted novice, his shoulders had still taken more strain that he’d liked.

On one of the climbs below the second pitch, the bag had jammed awkwardly against the rock in a narrow chimney and for a sickening moment, he’d thought he was about to lose his footing. He’d managed to jam himself in long enough for Finn, the soldier behind him, to free the bag, allowing him to move on downwards, sweating slightly more than before, but in a wetsuit, that was hardly surprising. He hoped Lyle wouldn’t notice.

They reached the longest pitch after 3 hours of hard caving. Lester was knackered and he was beyond the point of caring if anyone noticed. Lyle had set a fast pace. The soldiers were frighteningly fit, and they knew this place like the back of their hands, which helped. Lester had none of their advantages, but in his day, he’d been as fast as them, and almost as hard. His brother still was. But a forty minute walk each day, to and from his flat and the office, was no a substitute for this sort of exercise.

Lyle settled himself on a large boulder, glad of a chance to get his own breath back, while Finn prepared to descend the ladder first. He readied himself to safeguard his companion’s descent. He was surprised by how well Lester was standing up to the trip. Lyle had taken it relatively slowly for the first hour, even though every bone in his body had been screaming at him to hurry. He’d wanted to see how the guy moved underground, how he handled himself on the climbs and in the squeezes.

Lester had taken it all in his stride. Even the awkward bastard of a wriggle that came out right over the top of a two meter drop, which left your feet flailing in mid air, all the weight on your arms. They’d all been caught out by that one first time into the Crowll and one guy had fallen, so now it was customary for the first person down to guide your boot to the only secure foothold, a projection of rock on one wall, and from there, the next couple of moves weren’t so bad. The Witch King had come over the lip calmly, without any thrashing around, following Lyle’s instructions with an obedience that the soldier hadn’t reckoned the man would be capable of. Then once down, he’d stepped away from the climb, wiped his hands off on his wetsuit, and nodded his thanks, before preparing to do the same job of direction for the next guy. No point in taking chances even though the others did know the cave. They couldn’t afford an accident.

With an economy of movement that spoke of long practice, Finn clipped a karabiner on his belt into the lifeline, glanced at Lyle to check that he was ready then swung himself onto the ladder, settling his muddy boots onto the thin metal rungs. They didn’t carry bags on this pitch. It had an awkward stretch in the middle and needed someone there to feed the bags down to the next section. They’d sherpered kit in here often enough to have this down to a fine art now, but it was never easy, even so. It would take twenty minutes to get all the bags down and Lyle intended to use that time to let Lester rest. He’d need his energy later.

After ten minutes and four bags, Lyle yelled, “Finn, get clear and start moving on, but don’t go beyond the Devil’s Arsehole!”

The soldier’s acknowledgement came back up the pitch, already distant and quiet. Shortly after, they heard him call back up, “I’m down, rope free!”

Lester raised a muddy eyebrow at Lyle and muttered, “With a name like that I’m guessing it’s tight?”

The lieutenant nodded. “You won’t have a problem, but I have to breathe out, that’s for sure. It’s short, that’s the only saving grace. After the squeeze, there’s a 3 metre drop, laddered, but doesn’t really need it, then forty metres later, we’re in Lake Chamber.”

And then the fun would really start. But before that they had this pitch to negotiate, and it was no walk in the park. Lester would find that out the hard way, like they all had and getting wound up in advance wouldn’t improve things, so Lyle just kept quiet and watched as the other soldier, Blade, named for the knives he habitually carried, started on down the ladder. It would be the Witch King’s turn next.

 

The Hotel. 6.15am

 

This time, there wasn’t even a knock on the bedroom door. It swung open, propelled by Stringer’s foot, his hands occupied by coffee and chocolate biscuits.

Stephen opened his eyes and glared at the other captain over Ryan’s shoulder. “Why don’t we just do away with the door and install a sodding turnstile?”

Stringer grinned. “We could do with you two downstairs. Ditzy says the sedative is starting to wear off Lyle’s caver friends and even worse, Pippin’s starting to make sense………... I think I’ve been awake too long. Oh, and there’s been no word out of the Crowll.”

Stephen rolled over onto his back and promptly regretted it. “He’s what?”

“Starting to make sense,” Stringer repeated. “OK, he still won’t talk the girl into a shag by blathering on about the oxidation of iron sulphides, but Cutter’s showing alarming signs of sitting up and taking notice.”

Ryan took a quick mouthful of coffee, grabbed a biscuit and headed off in the direction of the shower, accidentally dumping the duvet on the floor in the process. Stephen groaned and tried to slide out of the bed without sitting down. He wasn’t entirely successful.

Stringer’s sharp green eyes slid in the direction of the sheets and he whistled softly through his teeth, “Rough night?”

Stephen glanced at the bed. The bottom sheet showed an unappealing mix of stains. Mainly blood and whisky. Oh lord, he was so going to owe Mary Mitchell an apology for this. He wondered vaguely what his chances were of slipping the bedding into the wash without her noticing.

He sighed. “It worked. We got some sleep. Eventually.”

Stringer shot him a sympathetic look. “Need a medic?”

“No, I bloody don’t, I know what your medics are like.” But as an afterthought, he grabbed a couple of painkillers out of Ryan’s pack and washed them down with coffee.

Two minutes later, Ryan wandered out of the bathroom, toweling himself dry and reaching for his clothes. Stephen headed for the shower in his place. There were still some streaks of blood on the back of his thighs. Ryan at least had the grace to look shamefaced.

 

The Devil’s Crowll. 1.45am.

Sir James Lester fought down a rising tide of panic. Firstly, he was not going to fall, the lifeline made sure of that. Secondly, he was several chest sizes smaller than any of the soldiers and they all fitted through here. Thirdly, oh fuck, who cared about thirdly? He was fucking stuck. That was all there was to it. And he hadn’t even got to the squeeze they all claimed really was tight. He was still dangling on the ladder on the main pitch.

He tried to relax, knowing that the more you struggled against the rock, the bigger you got, muscles swelling, enlarging, enough to wedge you so tightly that you thought you’d never move again. It was bad enough when that happened in a horizontal squeeze, but in a vertical one it was even harder, when relaxing too much could mean parting company with the ladder. But he was forgetting the lifeline again. I. Will. Not. Fall.

His breath was starting to come in short gasps now and sweat dripped in his eyes. The problem was the fucking gun. His belt had shifted round and the holster was caught on a rung, sticking painfully into his waist and ribs, stopping him moving downwards. And it would have to fucking well happen here, just at the tightest point. He tried to lift one leg up, to get to a higher rung of the ladder in an attempt to struggle free but he couldn’t get his sodding leg high enough. The weight of mud on his boot didn’t help, but the real problem was the narrowness of the rift and the length of his thighbones. The two were simply mutually incompatible. 

Bastard fucking pitch! Stupid fucking gun!

He tried a different tactic, pulling on his arms, trying to heave himself a few inches upwards, just enough to get free. His shoulder muscles strained so hard he thought something was going to pop. No chance. No fucking chance! He was still wedged, like the filling in a sandwich.

Doing his best to keep the panic out of his voice, he called upwards, “Lyle, I think I’ve got a bit of a problem.”

“Stuck?”

“You could put it like that. The gun holster’s caught on the ladder and I can’t get my leg back up to the next rung to get my weight off. Which way’s wider? Left or right?”

“Your right,” answered Lyle, his voice as calm and collected as ever. “Try and edge sideways a bit, that might just let you twist your leg enough to get it up. It’s always leg length that causes the problem on this bit. Ditzy gets stuck here every fucking time, especially coming back up.”

Lester gave a half pant, half laugh. “Comforting. Thanks. I love ones like this.”

“Don’t we all, mate,” laughed Lyle, “Take your time. I’ll keep the line tight.”

Edge to the right. Easier said than done. Keeping one foot on the flexible electron ladder, he braced his elbows against the rock and tried to push sideways. It worked. His foot started to move one way, while his chest slid the other. Not a madly healthy combination under normal circumstances, but at the moment any movement was better than none. His right foot flailed into the rift and dislodged a lump of rock. From somewhere, he found enough breath to yell, “Below!” The universal caving warning for rock, mud and anything else accidentally dislodged on a climb.

His contortions suddenly paid off. He managed to bend his leg far enough to catch the toe of his boot on a rung of the ladder, and with a desperate heave, he gained a few inches in height, just enough for the ludicrous piece of kit at his waist to come free of the ladder and then he was moving again, past the constriction, on downwards. Feet seeking each rung in turn, trying to find a rhythm, mostly failing, but still moving, which was what mattered most.

And Lyle had been right, it did get wider. Not much, but just enough that he could turn his head and look down, seeing the light from an LED head-torch below him in the blackness. The cold white light strangely comforting for once.

“Five metres and you’re down!” called Blade.

Even so, it still seemed a bloody long way. When he finally got sold rock under both feet, Lester leant thankfully against the wall, fingers trembling as he struggled to untie the bowline knot at his waist, fingers sliding on the mud that now seemed to coat every item of kit.

“Rope free!” he yelled, jerking hard on it, three times, in case his words didn’t carry properly up the shaft.

“Wait for Lyle,” said Blade, swinging a bag over each shoulder. “See you at the squeeze.”

Lester nodded, wondering how long it was going to take his heart rate to return to something approximating to normality. And he didn’t even want to fucking think about getting back up that pitch. Lyle had been right, this wasn’t a trip for novices or for someone who hadn’t caved in ten years. And he still had the delightfully named Devil’s Arsehole to negotiate.

This really hadn’t been one of his better ideas.

Twenty minutes later, Lyle shoved the last of the bags through the narrow slot and sighed heavily. “You first. I’ll only make it look difficult. It’s actually easier in a wetsuit, less drag, but it’s still fucking tight on me.”

Lester looked down, distaste curving his thin lips into their habitual half-sneer. The squeeze was well named, that was for sure. Thick reddish brown mud was smeared liberally around a tight round hole in the rocks. “Which way?”

“Head first. It dips for the first foot or so, then angles back up. The crux is the dip. Just keep wriggling. You’ll be OK.”

“Now I know why I gave this fucking stupid game up,” muttered Lester, lowering himself to the floor, arms extended, face pressed sideways into the mud. He was glad he didn’t wear contact lenses, that was for sure.

His shoulders slid in relatively easily, but the problem came when he tried to tried to make forward progress. The mud just seemed to suck him down onto the rock. Too much drag to allow any ease of movement. His feet flailed, trying and failing to find something to push against. Panic flared briefly and he forced himself to relax. The only way forward was by inching along, pushing with his elbows and using muscles in his stomach that he’d long since forgotten he possessed.

Inch by painful, sticky inch, he pushed, dragged and cursed his way through the squeeze. The rock pressed down into his back and for a very unpleasant two feet, he couldn’t even turn his head until he’d passed the tightest spot and was starting to move on into the chamber beyond.

The angle hurt his back like hell and the gun dug into his waist again. And he told Lyle what he thought of him, though gritted teeth. And the grit wasn’t metaphorical either. It was all too literal.

Not all of the cursed words made their way back to Lyle, but he heard enough to get the general drift of Lester’s obscenities. The guy’s language had certainly taken a turn for the worse. And he was definitely not liking the gun.

“You’ll be glad of it if you meet Mr. Nasty!” Lyle called, cheerfully.

“That’s what my Gran used to say about wearing vests,” grunted Lester as he finally managed to drag himself out of the constriction, to lie filthy and gasping on the floor of a small chamber.

As soon as Lester’s feet cleared the hole, Lyle started to follow. And as ever, it was fucking tight. Desperately, miserably, fucking tight. He didn’t even have the breath to curse. He always had to exhale just to get his chest past the tightest bit and there were times when he wondered what would happen if he got stuck at exactly the moment when he’d just pushed the air out of his lungs.

He hauled himself out of the squeeze and flopped down on the floor of the chamber next to Lester, chest heaving, heart hammering. He really fucking hated that bit. His eyes met the other man’s and they shared a brief moment of perfect understanding.

Lester struggled to his feet first and held a filthy hand down to the soldier. “I don’t suppose this place improves?”

Lyle grinned and spat out what seemed like an entire mouthful of mud. “What do you think?”

Lester sighed. “I’m trying my best not to think.” And with that, he hauled Lyle to his feet and they moved on after the others. If he survived this fucking trip he’d never set foot underground again as long as he lived. That was a promise. And one that he would have no trouble at all keeping.

 

The Hotel. 6.30am

“ ………….no, it’s not as simple as that, Professor. We couldn’t understand how the T. rexes got here, remember? Well, I think it’s all to do with the rocks. It’s the whole Triassic connection, I reckon. That was when the caves started to fill up with the iron ore …….”

If he mentions haematite again, I’ll have to kill him, thought Abby, pouring herself another coffee before trying to work a particularly stubborn crick out of her neck.

“………..yeah, that’s right, haematite.” Connor gave Abby a triumphant look. He loved those rare occasions when he managed to secure Cutter’s full attention and he was so enjoying this. “It’s all down to solutions. And iron compounds aren’t.”

Cutter was now starting to look a little dazed. Connor in full flow tended to have that effect on people. “Aren’t what, Connor?”

“Aren’t soluble. So they get kind of crusty, which is a bit weird, really, and then they sort of coat the insides of the caves. Think of it like a great big stomach, with a sort of crusty lining, you know, like you get after eating too much sweet and sour, when it sticks to your guts like glue.” He gave Cutter a sort of keep up look before adding, “Well actually, that’s not the only theory,” he gestured at his laptop screen and started to read to them, “..… a mixture of acidic iron-bearing solutions corrode cavities in the limestone that’s a bit like what happens when you drink too much cider, I reckon, and then the solutions get sort of neutralized, not sure I quite follow that bit, causing precipitation of iron compounds which then fill up the holes,” he ended with a flourish.

And then looked disappointed when everyone else just stared at him.

“Very nice, Connor,” said Claudia, patiently, privately thinking that the food and drink images were not what she wanted in her brain at this time of the morning. “But where does all this get us?”

“Haematite!” replied Connor, savoring what was clearly his Word of the Day. (And his Word of the Night Before, for that matter, thought Abby, with a groan.) “Loads of it. It’s brilliant. The name comes from the Greek word for blood, you know. That’s because it’s so red. They’ve even found it on Mars now, how cool is that?”

From the look on Cutter’s face, he was clearly starting to think Mars might be a preferable place to be. Where was Lester when they needed him? He was the only one of them who could ever manage to stop Connor in his tracks with a look. God knows, Cutter had tried often enough. They all had.

Stringer muttered, “My head’s starting to hurt.”

Abby shot him a sympathetic look. Connor took a lot of getting used to.

Raised voices in the hallway forestalled any attempt to restore the conversation to something resembling sanity.

“You fucking drugged us ………” and with that, two angry cavers stormed into the bar, followed by an entirely unconcerned and unapologetic Ditzy.

“Just following orders, mate,” he was offering, by way of explanation. “Anyway, you needed sleep. The pair of you were on the verge of shock.”

“What about their families? They need to know. You can’t just cover this one up the way you lot normally do!”

“It’s not a question of covering anything up, Mr. Morgan.” Claudia stepped forward and held out her hand, “Claudia Brown, Home Office. When we know what has happened, we can speak to their families. For now, Mr. Mitchell has contacted them and explained that the team exited late and stayed over here last night. Lieutenant Lyle is down the cave now. We hope to get more news later. We will then know what to tell their families.”

“Well, I doubt knowing what killed them will make their folks feel better,” commented Neil Dwyer, his face still pale and his arm in a sling. “They need to know, Miss Brown, Rob’s right. And they have a right to know now.”

“Lyle believes there’s a chance they might not both be dead. With that as a possibility we can hardly announce their deaths and then change our minds later!” Claudia’s voice rose sharply to make herself heard as both men started arguing with her at once.

Cutter stepped forward protectively, but it was Stringer who brought matters under control. “Shut the fuck up!” he commanded, in a parade ground voice. “If Lyle and this lady’s boss are prepared to risk their necks going back down to look for your mates, then you can bloody well give them the chance to find out what the hell has happened before you decide to salve your consciences and tell all!”

Both men stopped abruptly and stared at Stringer. “There’s no way either of them could have survived,” said Morgan, looking tired and drawn. “You didn’t see the blood.”

Stringer sighed, “And you didn’t see the bodies, chum. One person can produce a hell of a lot of blood. And mixed with water? It looks even worse. So don’t jump to conclusions too soon. There is still a chance, probably only for one of them, but who knows? That’s why Lyle’s gone back down.”

Stringer’s words started to sink in and Morgan’s face paled at the thought that they might have left one of their friends alive down there. He looked like he was about to be sick. “Alive ……….? ……………..Oh, Christ!”

Stringer’s voice softened, “Don’t get your hopes up too far, it’s not much of a chance, but I’ve known smaller odds come good.”

“We left them …….” breathed the caver, “…….down there with whatever it is, we fucking ran, and we left them.”

“What do you do for a living?” asked Stringer, his rapid change of topic taking everyone in the room by surprise.”

“IT,” said Morgan, caught entirely off balance by the question.

“So what makes you think you know how much blood one or two people can produce? Her Majesty’s Government pays me to see things like that with monotonous regularity, but I somehow don’t think it comes within your job description, so I won’t tell you how to fix a computer, and you won’t argue with me about blood. Deal?”

Rob Morgan gave a shaky laugh, glad of any lifeline to hang onto at the moment. “Deal.”

Claudia shot a grateful glance at Stringer. If they could keep these two on board, it would make the next day or so that bit easier, and they needed all the help they could get at the moment.

Mary Mitchell chose that moment to arrive with coffee, tea and toast and the sort of brisk no-nonsense manner that did not lend itself to any further histrionics. “There’s a major rescue on down Aggie,” she said to the two men, handing out mugs. “We’re on our own so far as the Crowll is concerned.” In response to their questions, she added, “Broken leg, far end of Southern Stream. A bloody great big lump of rock decided to jump out of the roof and land on him. They’ve trying to decide whether to move him out or hospitalize underground. So if we need another team down the Crowll, it looks like we’re all going in.” She stared round at everyone else, “So you lot had better drink your coffee, eat some breakfast and decide who’s doing what. Jim reckons we give it another three hours then go looking. Jon didn’t leave a call out time, so that just means we take our own decisions.”

The look Mary gave both Claudia and Cutter wasn’t one that anyone felt like arguing with and her words were delivered in the voice of a woman who’d brought up three kids, which was remarkably similar in tone to the one Stringer had just used.

The two Special Forces captains traded amused looks. If it came to an argument between Mary Mitchell and Claudia Brown, they’d just stand back and wait for the survivor to give the orders.

Claudia gave a slight smile. “Mrs. Mitchell, I know absolutely nothing about caving, but as Captain Stringer has just pointed out, my boss is down there, and as I’ve no desire at all to explain any of this to my superiors, I’m entirely happy on this occasion to share the decision making. Professor Cutter advises me on dinosaurs, and you and you husband can advise me on caving. Now, do you need a hand with breakfast?”

The other woman returned the smile. “That would be wonderful. You can help me throw Ryan’s lot out of the kitchen. They’re trying to be helpful, which is just ever so slightly scary.”

Connor promptly went back to lecturing Cutter on haematite, magnetite and even started to make mention of lodestones. Abby, perched on the arm of the sofa, began to ask questions. Even Stringer seemed to be listening.

Stephen took advantage of the distraction to dive back upstairs and bundle the sheet off the bed then head down with it to the laundry room. If he was lucky, he’d get away with it without Mary noticing.

 

The Devil’s Crowll. 2.45am

Morgan had been right. The dive site was a mess. Kit strewn around, torn, broken, filthy. Like a whirlwind had ripped through a kid’s party. Nothing was useable, that was for sure.

The sump itself looked deceptively clear. No trace of blood left visible.

“Whatever it was had big feet,” commented Finn, taking the M4 rifle out of the tackle bag and slinging it over his shoulder.

“And bigger teeth,” muttered Blade, one of his hands resting in its accustomed position on the hilt of a large knife strapped to his right thigh. A few hours ago, Lester had thought the rig looked even more incongruous over the caving suit than the guns did, if that was possible, but now he just thought it looked comforting. He was even starting to feel more kindly disposed towards his own gun.

“So what’s new?” said Lyle, acidly, as he started to empty the tackle bags onto what was left of one of the tattered tarpaulins.

“Any chance of a nice, safe job next, sir?” asked Finn. “Can’t we go back to the Middle East somewhere?”

“We should be so lucky,” muttered the lieutenant, strapping a wide belt round his waist and starting to settle his diving kit into place. One air cylinder at each hip. Most cave divers preferred side-mounted bottles rather than the back-mounted rigs favored by open water divers. It was easier to get a hand down to your hips in a confined space, and the valves on the top of the bottles were less likely to get damaged in that position as well.

Beside him, Lester started sorting out the borrowed gear. Cautious, methodical and very, very scared. He hadn’t cave-dived for twelve years, and he hadn’t even dived in open water for the past five, not since his last holiday abroad with his brother in the Red Sea. Too long ago for comfort.

His movements were no longer automatic. The checking procedures no longer second nature. If he made a mistake, it was likely to kill him. Not a very comforting thought. Too much kit. Or that was what it always seemed like. Two bottles, two demand-valves, one for each cylinder. Mask. Line reel, just in case he needed to lay his own line instead of following Lyle’s. Never dive without a line. Not in a cave or a mine. That way lies certain death. A lonely, nasty death.

He’d put the kit on when he knew he’d definitely be going into the water. But as there was still a possibility that they’d need to beat a hasty retreat if the Creature from the Black Lagoon surfaced again all he did for now was strap a diving knife to his left forearm. It would do just as well for stabbing anything lurking in the sump, even though it’s real purpose was cutting the line if it became entangled, but even that was very much a last resort. It was all too easy to cut the wrong section and end up with nothing to follow back. Divers had died that way. He’d known one of them.

Lyle handed him two back-up lights one to go on either side of his helmet. Not that he’d be able to see much down there, but he could always hope, even though the chance of decent visibility was miniscule.

The last piece of kit the soldier put on caused Lester’s muddy eyebrows to shoot upwards in amazement. Lyle reached for one of the M4 rifles and proceed to fasten it round his chest, barrel downwards, ready to be ripped from the velcro straps if needed.

With a satisfied nod, the soldier slid down to the edge of the pool. “OK. I’ve got enough air for about three hours. So have you. If I’m not back in one hour, come looking if you feel like it. If you don’t, wait another two hours if you can, just in case, then give up and go out. Let Jim Mitchell take the decisions after that. If you come in after me and find the line broken, get out. Don’t risk it. I have no fucking idea what I’m gonna find down there, but the chances are that it’s bigger than me and nastier than me, so definitely no heroics. Understood?”

Lester met Lyle’s eyes and nodded.

He was a civil servant. He had no qualms about lying.

 

The Hotel. 6.45am.

In the courtyard, Jim Mitchell, the two cavers and Ditzy were already starting to assemble more gear.

Stephen wandered around the side of the hotel, glad of five minutes alone in the fresh morning air.

He leant against the old grey stone of the building, staring across to the trees. He wasn’t exactly thrilled about the idea of going underground himself. Memories of his encounter with the giant insect in the tunnels were still unpleasantly vivid. And he really hated bugs.

Footsteps crunched behind him on the gravel. He didn’t bother to turn. Arms snaked round his waist and Ryan pressed a gentle kiss on the back of his neck. Stephen sighed and leant back against the other man, carefully. He was going to have to eat breakfast standing up, that was for sure. He wondered if any of the others would notice. He hoped not.

“Remember the question you asked me in the shower?” asked Ryan, softly. Stephen nodded, still silent. “So answer it for me now. Why did you let me do that?”

Could I have stopped you? Not with violence, that’s for sure. I’m good, but I’m not that fucking good. Would you have stopped if I’d asked? I didn’t want the answer to that a few hours ago, what makes you think I want it now? Aloud he said, “You needed to get some sleep. It was no big deal.”

Strong hands turned him round and grey eyes stared searchingly into his. “Liar,” breathed Ryan. “You hated it.”

Stephen leant his head against the other man’s shoulder and closed his eyes. “Not entirely. Part of me enjoyed it. That same fucked-up part of me that used to trail around after her like some sort of lost puppy hoping for attention. I knew perfectly well what you’d do if I kept pushing you.” He raised his head and his eyes shone with the dark intensity of a midnight sky. “We’ve played rough before, Ryan, and the truth is, we both like it. It just hurt a bit more than I’d bargained for, that’s all. It’s no big deal.”

“You’re still lying.” Ryan’s voice was quiet, without challenge. He was making a simple statement, not trying to start a fight. “I know you better than that after a month.” Or at least I think I do. “We’re both likely to be risking our necks before the day’s out and I don’t want anything festering between us. I once told you that I didn’t want you getting killed before I’d had chance to fuck you properly, well now I don’t want to get killed without having the chance to prove I’m sorry. Now are you going to tell me the truth or not?”

Stephen gave a slightly shaky laugh. “Ryan, there are times when I don’t think I’d know the truth if it bit me. I had an affair with my best friend’s wife. I’ve spent the last eight years with the shadow of that lie between us. I invented an imaginary girlfriend when Abby started showing an interest in me. I don’t do relationships. I’m crap at them. What makes you think I’m going to tell the truth now?”

For answer, Ryan leant forward and brushed his lips across Stephen’s mouth, feather light, barely even touching. Stephen opened his mouth slightly and let their breath mingle. Lips touched again, still soft, and Ryan’s hesitant tongue sought his. The soldier’s mouth tasted faintly of coffee. The kiss was long and deep, but still gentle, Ryan’s eyes open and searching, his hands light and soothing.

When he finally drew back, the soldier murmured, “You might be able to lie with your mouth, Hart, but not with your eyes. You thought that if you cried foul that I might not stop, and you didn’t want to know whether you really could trust me or not, did you? Because whenever you’ve trusted a lover before, they’ve let you down.”

“Would you have stopped?” Could you have stopped? Don’t lie to me, Ryan, whatever you do, don’t fucking lie to me!

The silence stretched on. Almost as intense and painful as the sex had been.

Thoughts buzzed around in Stephen’s head like angry flies. I was just too bloody stubborn to try and stop you, that was my problem. I wanted you to know that I could take it. Jesus Christ, how screwed up does that make me? Is that the only way I think I can get anyone’s respect? But just don’t fucking lie to me, Ryan. She lied. It was like a fucking game to her. Tell me the truth. Then maybe I can deal with it. Whatever the answer is.

Ryan folded his arm’s gently round the younger man, holding him protectively, wishing there was something, anything, he could do to drive the demons of the past away. Not only Hart’s demons, but his own. He’d made a mistake once in his life by losing control. And it had cost him his relationship with his child.

His marriage had already been over by that stage, but she’d just needed that one last piece of ammunition, and he’d handed it to her on a plate. It was the first, and only time he’d ever hit a woman. At least one that wasn’t trying to kill him, that is. One momentary flash of temper, that was all, but it had been enough for her to make a case that he was a danger to them both. She’d played on that again and again. And his job had counted against him there. All to easy to paint a picture of a man who’d resort to violence at the least provocation.

And since then, Ryan didn’t do loss of control. Not again. Not when it really mattered. There were times when he wished he could. Times when he just wanted to let his guard down, all the way. To let someone back into his life. Not holding anything back. And he’d come close to it with this man. So close that he’d even begun to think that maybe, just maybe, it could become a warm reality.

Stephen watched the other man’s grey eyes more closely than he felt he’d ever watched anybody or any thing in his entire life. He was a fencer. He knew how just the faintest flicker of an eye was enough to give away a person’s thoughts and intentions. He’d faced many opponents who could lie with their eyes. He could even do it himself. And he knew the same was true of Ryan. But he also knew the truth when he saw it, even though he wasn’t very good with it himself. He could see the pain in Ryan’s eyes, no matter how much the man tried to hide it. And he knew that pain was even sharper than the pain he’d felt a few hours ago.

Ryan spoke quietly, firmly, his eyes meeting Stephen’s without flinching. “I would have stopped.” And give me a second chance and I’ll prove it.

Stephen allowed himself to sink against Ryan’s shoulder and in a voice so low as to be almost inaudible, he muttered, “I wanted you to respect me.”

The soldier pulled back so sharply that Stephen almost stumbled. Ryan’s eyebrows shot up in startled amazement. “You faced a fucking T. rex for me, and you thought you needed to let me shag you like that so I’d respect you?”

“I did have a rocket launcher,” Stephen pointed out, in the same unnaturally quiet voice.

That did nothing to wipe the look of incredulity from Ryan’s face. “And you’d fired precisely how many rocket launchers in your life, Dr Hart?”

Stephen’s answering laugh was ragged.

Before he had chance to speak, a voice behind them yelled. “Breakfast!”

Ryan arms tightened, as though he could keep a barrier between them and the rest of the world just for a while longer. Just while they tried to work this out. But there was fuck all chance of that. The story of his life, really.

There was still too much left unsaid for his liking. Hart was still acting as though what had happened had been all down to his own issues. He’d showed no anger, which Ryan was having trouble with. He knew the man could be provoked to anger, he’d been in the receiving end of it, and in his direct view of life, anger was one of the easier emotions to deal with. He wasn’t sure how to tackle much else.

Ryan tipped Stephen’s head back, running both hands through the thick black hair, lips seeking out the sensitive spots beneath each ear, tracking round the line of his jaw, enjoying the feel of stubble on his skin, then their lips met again, almost like a first kiss, hesitant yet hopeful, then deepening, becoming sensuous rather than demanding. Holding the promise of warmth, comfort and security.

And given the chance, he would make good those promises. And maybe, just maybe, with enough time, and enough honesty, they might stand a chance of starting to work it out between them. Whether they’d eventually succeed or not, he had no idea, but what Ryan did know was that he wanted, very much, to try.

 

The Devil’s Crowll. 3.30am

Lester looked at his watch. It would take him at least fifteen minutes to kit up. No point in putting off the inevitable.

He glanced over at the two hard-eyed soldiers. “I’m going to be somewhat vulnerable getting this lot on, so if anything comes out of that water that isn’t obviously a member of the human race, I’d be grateful if you’d make good use of what ever weaponry takes your fancy, gentlemen. And if you run out of bullets, improvise.”

Finn grinned. “We’re good at improvisation, sir. You can rely on us for that. But we don’t often run out of bullets. Lead weights aren’t the only thing you’ve been carrying.”

Lester’s answering smile was bleak. “Now I know why the fucking bags were so heavy!”

And he couldn’t put the dive off any longer.


	6. Chapter 6

** The Devil’s Crowll.4am.  **

_If you don’t mind having to slither and grope  
Down a cranky ladder and a mud-stained rope  
You might just make it to Gobsmack Stope  
In the Parys Mountain Mine!  
Then you’ll grit your teeth and hold your breath  
As you pass the Incredible Wall of Death  
Where the levels beckon right and left  
In the Parys Mountain Mine!_

Lester usually had no problem with levels _beckoning_ on more than one side, but when they did it underwater, in conditions which made pea-soup look transparent, he started to lose his enthusiasm for the great unknown.

And at the moment, he was all too aware of several uncomfortable facts:

1\. Only a very thin nylon diving line stood between him and a lingering death, hopelessly lost in an underwater maze.

2.He was in zero visibility conditions, and this was unlikely to improve.

3\. He was possibly finning unsuspectingly towards something big enough and nasty enough to rip him into small, bloody pieces.

4\. He was shit-scared. And that wasn’t likely to improve either.

The water was cold and his hands were even colder, but he’d left his gloves behind deliberately. It was hard enough to feel the line through chilled fingers at the best of times and with gloves on, it could quickly become impossible. The water which had looked so deceptively clear and almost seductively inviting at first sight had turned immediately into a dark reddish brown sludge. And he was betting that some of the colour still came from a man’s blood, mixed into the mud and ochre at the bottom of the sump.

The only thing this sump had going for it at the moment was that he hadn’t encountered anything tight, or anything with teeth for that matter, but he had passed several sections where the walls suddenly, and seemingly randomly, disappeared, indicating the existence of other passages, generally known in mines as _levels_. There was almost no way of keeping track of these in your head, without the benefit of sight, hence his total reliance on the modern day equivalent of Ariadne’s Thread. He just desperately hoped he didn’t meet the Triassic version of the Minotaur.

He tried to keep his breathing slow and regular. All divers needed to conserve their air. It was an all too limited resource in this environment. He was carrying two 45 cubic foot diving cylinders, capable of delivering about 3 hours of air between them. But he couldn’t afford to ignore the _thirds rule_. The most basic rule of all in cave diving. You used no more than one third of your air on the way in, saving one third for the way back and keeping one third in reserve for your safety margin, in case of problems. It was probably the only universal rule in this potentially suicidal game.

_And if I die down here, my fucking life policies won’t pay out._

**The Hotel. 7.15am.**

“Run this one past me again, Connor,” said Cutter, with unusual patience, not having any idea how much those words meant to his student.

_Without mentioning haematite_ , thought Abby, uncharitably, before the amused gleam in Captain Stringer’s eyes suddenly made her feel protective. Connor was her friend and she was damned if an ex-public schoolboy type with a big gun was going to get away with taking the piss.

Stringer’s amusement didn’t diminish when he felt the glare directed at him by the skinny, boyish blonde, but it wasn’t too hard to keep a straight face. Pippin’s floppy hair, ridiculous hat and puppy dog enthusiasm did a good job of concealing an almost painfully sharp intellect and even Stringer had to admit that the kid was starting to make sense.

And he was starting to like Merry, so he didn’t want to end up on her shit-list, if he could avoid it.

As Pippin was pointing out enthusiastically, they knew the anomalies came complete with a strong magnetic field. That had been in the reports. Joel Stringer never went into an assignment without reading the background data. None of them did, if they had a choice.

Iron ore was magnetic. Connor had explained that in detail as well, going into the differences between _haematite_ , _magnetite_ and following up with what sounded like a dissertation on how _lodestones_ were formed.

He’d even spent twenty minutes explaining the geology of the Forest of Dean, and the word _Triassic_ had figured a lot. A relevant factor here seemed to be the unusually high concentration of metalliferous ore of the right type to attract anomalies. It was starting to look like they’d need another batch of experts to figure this one out properly but for the moment, they had Connor and his ever-present lap-top. Which was damn nearly as good.

And for once, he had an attentive audience.

** The Devil’s Crowll.4.15am.  **

Lester slid his left hand along the line, finning as gently as he could. There was no way to avoid stirring up the mud, but he still clung to a vain hope of eventually managing to see something in this godforsaken sump. Part of his problem was that he was carrying slightly too much weight and so had a tendency to sink downwards into the muck.

He considered ditching one of the lead weights attached to his belt but rejected the idea. It was a hell of a long time since he’d worn this sort of kit and he wasn’t sufficiently confident of his abilities to start playing around like that in these conditions. He’d just have to put up with the cloud of mud and silt he was stirring up. But if he did make it to dry land or an air-bell of some sort, he would definitely shed some lead. There was a fine dividing line between not bobbing around on the roof of the passage and not dragging yourself through the mud on the bottom, and he hadn’t quite got it right.

The line continued round a corner. Lester felt his knuckles scrape rock. With his right hand he was able to reach out and feel the wall on the other side of the underwater passage. At the moment, the level was no more than one and a half meters wide, and was maybe the same high, but the silt at the bottom no doubt disguised the original depth. He was losing track of distance in this strange subterranean world. The line was tagged at 30m intervals, but he had a nasty feeling he’d miscounted already. A typical novice’s mistake, which his irritatingly competent brother would no doubt have derided.

The only noise he could hear was the sound of air being drawn though the regulator gripped fiercely between his teeth and the secondary hiss of the bubbles escaping, to bob unseen along the passage roof. His jaw was already aching slightly but he had no intention of loosening his grip on the mouth-piece.

Part of his brain, the very small part that wasn’t gibbering with fear, told him that Lyle had made a very good job of laying the line. Not too tight. Not too loose. Along one particularly lengthy stretch he’d even anchored it in place with a small bag of pebbles, carried for exactly that purpose, to stop it drifting down into a narrower section of passage on the left, enabling Lester to continue finning slowly and carefully along the middle of the passage.

It was hard to estimate time, and even harder to see his watch in the murk, but he thought he’d been in the sump now for maybe twenty minutes. A long dive by his standards but on the plus side, he was still in one piece. What did worry him though was his safety margin.He was certain he was breathing more heavily than Lyle would be, and so he’d be using up his air faster. And he’d not found the other diver yet. But nor had he come to the end of the line. Not in any sense. Not yet, at least.

A moment later, he felt the nylon cord between his fingers jerk slightly and his heart rate jumped abruptly. And if ever he’d known what it meant to have your heart in your mouth, he knew it now. It was suddenly almost impossible to swallow around the hard lump of fear constricting his throat.

He could see fuck all, but even so, he peered ahead in the muddy water trying to make out even the faintest glimmer of light that would have betokened a diver coming back the other way. Nothing.

Lester’s heart hammered painfully in his chest, and he knew for certain he was dragging air into his lungs way faster than he should have been. Was it Lyle returning, or the movement of the line being snagged on the feet _flippers?_ of whatever it was that had trashed the camp and almost certainly killed at least one of the original divers? He tried to recall the prints they’d seen in the mud, but the only images his brain insisted on sending him were of teeth. Fucking great big teeth. Coming towards him down the passage.

With his right hand he fumbled for the hilt of the diving knife strapped to his left forearm. The knife slid free of the hilt and felt hard and comforting in his grip. He stopped finning and allowed himself to sink slightly, waiting for what could just turn out to be a nasty death but still clinging to the hope that he might yet see a light in the Stygian darkness.

The line continued to twitch and pull in his hand and he could now feel a movement in the water on his hands and on the parts of his face not covered by the neoprene hood and diving mask. The temptation to try to turn round and get the hell out of there was almost over-whelming but the still-rational part of his brain knew that with a knife in hand he had some hope of fighting back, but if he turned tail now, he’d have no defense at all. That was all that kept him there. The knowledge that _some_ hope was better than _no_ hope.

So Lester held his ground and wondered whether being ripped apart would be a quick death or a slow one. And how much it would hurt.

**The Hotel.7.45am.**

Ryan shook his head. “I’m not sending any more men into the Crowll yet. Lyle knew the risks. We wait.”

“For what?” Jim Mitchell’s voice was quiet, the look in his brown eyes was intense, falling just short of open challenge but not by much.

The soldier sighed. “For one of them to get back out and tell us what the hell is going on. Connor thinks that whatever it is will probably be mainly aquatic. Unlikely to be able to climb ladders. If he’s right, and in my experience, he usually is, then the chances of all of them falling victim to the fucking thing are not that high. If Lyle and Lester aren’t back within their air margins, Finn and Blade will give them probably an hour on top, then they’ll head back out. So you do the maths, Jim. Tell me when we can expect one of them back out.”

“They went underground at about 10. They had a lot of kit and Lester isn’t caving fit, so Jon wouldn’t have pushed the pace. Call it 5 hours to reach the sump, maybe a bit less, so the earliest they could have been diving would have been 3 ish. They’re carrying enough air for about 3 hours each, but if they find dry passage it could take longer. The earliest we could expect someone out could be between 10 and 11.”

“So we wait until 10.30 and talk again,” said Ryan.

“And in the meantime?”

For a brief moment, Ryan’s mask of professional detachment slipped and concern flickered in the cool grey eyes. “Get some gear ready, Jim. And decide which of the lads you want to take with you.” Fuck it. Lyle was his friend. If Arwen argued, he’d field Mary for back-up.

Jim Mitchell grinned and went off to sort the kit.

**The Devil’s Crowll.4.55am.**

The hand that grasped Lester’s was cold but it was human, and that was all that mattered right now.

Dim yellow light from Lyle’s diving lights cast a faint halo in the water.

The soldier had approached round an almost right-angled bend in the passage so Lester hadn’t seen the light until the second after that gut-churning first contact when searching fingers had slid along the line and up and over his own hand, tentative at first, then searching, almost demanding. But more importantly, alive.

Shock receded like the fierce roll of an ocean wave, leaving Lester light-headed with relief. He had just enough common sense left to sheath the knife before reaching for Lyle’s hand in an attempt to convince himself that it really was the soldier and not just something bearing a passing resemblance to a human being that would then try to eat him.

Lyle’s hand gripped Lester’s reassuringly, then he made a circle of his first finger and thumb and held his hand up close to the other man’s face, making the universal underwater signal for OK.

The silt in the passage suddenly churned up even more and Lester was conscious of the fact that Lyle was now twisting round, changing position so they were both facing the same way along the level. Towards the corner. Back into the cave.

_Oh, shit._

He felt Lyle’s hand on his shoulder. A firm grip. One that said _Trust me_.

Lester exhaled a long slow breath and groped blindly for the other man’s arm, squeezing in acknowledgment, then Lyle was moving again, finning slowly and carefully back the way he’d come. Deeper into the Devil’s Crowll. Lester counted slowly to thirty and then followed him.

He was calmer now. If the soldier was going back it must mean he’d found someone alive. Lyle would be too close to the limits of his first third of air for any other scenario to be likely.

All Lester had to do now was follow. And hope.

**The Hotel.9am.**

Connor looked up from his laptop, his face alight with interest, “Hey, cool!We can go down one of the mines and take a look from the inside!”

“You know how to give a girl a good time,” muttered Abby.

Claudia grimaced, “No thanks. I heard Lyle’s description. It sounds like something out of one of my worst nightmares.”

“No, look,” he turned the screen round and gestured enthusiastically, “there’s one that’s open to the public, it’s not far away, either.”

“Clearwell Caves,” said Mary Mitchell, arriving with another tray of bacon rolls. “The Upper Series is open to tourists. They even take parties down into the lower levels on adventure trips. It’s nowhere near as bad as the Crowll, but if our guys do manage to link them up, it’ll make a hell of a trip between the two, that’s for sure.”

Connor’s hand froze in the act of propelling a bacon roll towards his mouth. “There’s a connection between where they’re diving and the tourist place?”

Mary shrugged, “Almost certainly. They just haven’t found the way through yet, that’s all. It took five years of digging to reopen the way back down to the flooded levels of the Crowll. It’s now just a question of finding the right way. They’ll do it eventually, I’m sure.” The animation suddenly faded from her face as memory bore back down on her like a lead weight.

“Professor!” Connor’s yell took the whole room by surprise.

The look on the lad’s face told Stringer all he needed to know. Without waiting for an explanation he took off in the direction of the door, “Ryan, we’ve got more trouble!”

**The Devil’s Crowll.5.05am.**

The passage walls had vanished on both sides. If anything, Lester felt even more nervous when that happened. At least in zero visibility the walls were some sort of anchor to a tenuous reality. Without their comforting presence agoraphobia was an even bigger problem for a cave diver than claustrophobia.

He could feel movement on the line ahead so it was a reasonable bet that Lyle was still underwater. He’d counted three tags, so they’d gone maybe another 90 metres or so. _How much further?_

Lester slowed for a moment as he reached another of the soldier’s line anchors. His hand slid up to the knot that held the small net of stones in place, then he transferred his hold on the line past it and hesitated just long enough to adjust the gag in his mouth with his free hand, working his jaw to try and relieve the painful cramp which came from gripping the mouthpiece too tightly between his teeth. He also swallowed hard to relieve the pressure building up in his ears. Both of them gave a satisfying pop and immediately felt more comfortable.

The momentary lack of movement allowed him to drift down in the water and one hand trailed in the soft mud, stirring up even more particles of silt, reducing visibility even further, if that was possible. Christ, he’d be glad when he was out of this god awful murk.

Something round and hard shifted position under his hand. More out of habit than anything, he explored its surface. It didn’t feel like a rock. Too smooth, too regular. It felt like plastic. He started to use it to push himself off the bottom and the object shifted under his hand. It now felt soft and sort of lumpy and one finger slid into something that yielded unpleasantly to his touch.

_Oh dear God, no!_

Panic clutched at him with invisible fingers, digging into his brain, darkness threatening to engulf his senses as thickly as the mud rising round him. Sickness rose in his throat. He fought desperately for control. He couldn’t throw up, not underwater, no way! But his body had other views.

Vomit rose inexorably and wouldn’t be denied. With his right hand, he dragged the gag out of his mouth and spewed into the water. _Heave_. Stuff the gag back in. _Breathe_. Rip the mouthpiece out again. _Heave_. If he got the sequence wrong, he’d drag water into his lungs instead of air and would drown. It was as simple as that.

_Fuck!_

There was nothing simple about throwing up underwater. His brother had done it once, diving too soon after a heavy drinking session the night before. Bloody stupid, but they’d laughed about it afterwards. Somewhat shamefacedly in Ralph’s case, but they’d still laughed. Lester wasn’t laughing now, that was for sure.

The spasms subsided slightly and he realized he was breathing air again. He wanted to cough, to spit, to finish heaving, but not here, not underwater. For a moment he thought he’d let go of the line and his brain twisted in terror, then he realized the thin nylon cord was still twined round the fingers of his left hand and he really was hanging onto it for grim death. Which was exactly what he’d be facing if he’d let go.

Adrenaline surging through his system, he kicked off the bottom as best he could, the long fins digging deeply into the mud. He resisted the temptation to drag himself along with the line. It wasn’t designed for that. It was for guidance only, not for pulling on. Legs straight, kicking up, down, up, down, he propelled himself on, away from the horror nestled in the mud. Along the line. Towards what he hoped was airspace. And something that might pass for safety in this insane, and distinctly unfriendly, subterranean world.

Hands grabbed him under the armpits and his head broke through the surface of the water. Light blinded him. He spat the mouthpiece out, coughing and retching so hard he thought he’d bring up his own lungs. Strong arms hauled him out of the water and he heard Lyle saying his name, but he couldn’t make out any more than that.

He was breathing air, that was all that mattered.

“What the fuck happened?” Lyle’s voice was rough with concern. He’d begun to think the other man would never stop coughing.

“Threw up,” Lester muttered, spitting again and trying to sit up. The amount of kit round his waist immediately turning into a hindrance away from the buoyancy of the water.

“Yeah, the vomit in your gag’s a bit of a giveaway. Why?”

“Felt something in the mud ……..a helmet.”

Lyles eyes widened and he breathed, “Oh shit.”

No more words were needed. The look on Lester’s face told the story eloquently enough. It hadn’t just been a helmet he’d found. It had still been attached to its former owner’s head.

Jesus H. Christ, that’d be enough to make anyone hurl. Lyle held the other man’s shoulders hard, trying to convey sympathy without words, while Lester fought for control. And finally won.

**Clearwell** **Caves** **. 9.45am.**

“How many, and where?” Mary Mitchell was doing a good job of keeping her voice calm but the teenager behind the desk already looked on the verge of panic, even though Ryan and Stringer were doing their best to look non-threatening.

“Fred and Sheelagh have taken a group of nine kids down to the Deep Levels, they went in early, about nine o’clock ……….. it’s a birthday treat ……….. Mary, what’s going on?”

“We’re not sure, Megan, but we might have a bit of a problem and these guys are here to check it out. It’s OK to let them down, this lady’s from the Government.”

Claudia stepped forward with her best _Trust me I’m from the Home Office_ smile and flashed her ID. The girl seemed reassured, even though she didn’t actually read it.

“Claudia Brown, Home Office.” The two soldiers tried, and conspicuously failed, to stifle grins. _Damn, why do I always say it the same way?_ thought Claudia. “How many more people are underground?Have you got a tour in there at the moment?”

“Don’t run tours like that, ma’am,” the girl said, shyly, glancing at Mary for help.

“It’s a self-guided tour,” Mary explained. “The caves are lit all the time and the visitors just follow the marked paths. The way down to the Deep Levels is gated and locked so they can’t go off the main route. How many have gone down this morning, Megan?” Not too many surely, it was early yet, and there were no coaches in the car-park, although there had been at least half a dozen cars.

The girl glanced at a pad of paper by the till and answered confidently, “Twenty three.” She saw the other woman’s look of surprise and added, “A mini-bus dropped one group off, but the driver didn’t stay. He’s coming back for them at 11 o’clock.”

“Could you get someone to close the outer gates, please?” asked Claudia, retying to keep the urgency out of her voice. “It would be a good idea to shut the caves to the public for the rest of the day. We’ll send people underground to bring your visitors out. If they want refunds, just let the Home Office have the bill.” _At least I’ll be cheaper than the helicopter, but Lester still won’t approve._ “Mary, how do you want to organize this?”

Ten minutes later, Mary Mitchell had sent four of the show cave staff underground, each accompanied by one of the soldiers. Their job was to act as sheepdogs, round up the visitors and get them all back to the surface.

Claudia wasn’t convinced by the _escaped prisoner_ line, but it was better than nothing, and certainly better than the _you’re about to be eaten by a big bad monster from the past_ line. That really wasn’t convincing, even if it might be true.

And, as ever, when dealing with the inhabitants of the Forest, they just shrugged, looked inscrutable and got on with it. What the hell had these people seen over the years that made this sort of thing seem normal?

**The Devil’s Crowll.5.15am**

Lyle’s hunch had proved right. One of the divers had survived. Dave Shaw. A short, thick set man in his early thirties, who seemed unreasonably calm in the circumstances. But there was no mistaking the fact that he was also in the early stages of hypothermia and had a slightly unfocussed look in his eyes that spoke of shock.

Shaw’s diving bottles were empty. In the chaos of the underwater attack, one of his air hoses had been severed and the other had been damaged. He’d made it back into the big chamber, known to miners as a _churn_. The chamber he and his companion, Chris Dennett, had discovered only half an hour before.

The bottles had bled out and now lay discarded in the mud. Dennett had no doubt bled out as well. Lyle just hoped it had been a quick death.

Lester noted the slight shudder that passed over the other man’s normally impassive face. Even hardened to unpleasant ways of dying as the Special Forces soldiers were, there was something peculiarly horrible about the thought of being attacked in the murk of the sump.

Shaw hadn’t seen the attack on his companion.He’d dived out last, over the moon with the success of the trip, reliving the moment when they realized they’d left the Crowll behind and had surfaced in a different system entirely.

The churn was huge, a hundred metres long, by at least 50 wide. A massive domed chamber whose sides sloped down to a relatively flat floor, strewn in placed with large boulders. A mud bank led down to the underground lake where the divers had first surfaced. They’d explored for half an hour. Enough to be sure of the dimensions of the churn and to decide that whilst there must be a way out of here, the evidence of past mining activity testified to that, they’d probably need to dig amongst the rocks and boulders around the edge of the chamber to uncover it.

But they’d got through, that was the main thing! Five years of hard work had finally paid off. They were into new passage. Every caver’s dream.

A dream that was shortly to turn into a nightmare.

Minutes into his return dive, Shaw had felt a commotion in the water. The line had suddenly gone slack. He’d followed it a little way further but he’d known something was badly wrong. Further turbulence had freaked him out, he’d turned and started to fin back up the line as fast as he could, back to what he hoped was the safety of the churn.

He’d nearly made it, then something had cannoned into him from behind, almost jerking the line out of his fingers. He’d felt a tug, and one fin was ripped off his boot, then something had powered past him in the widest part of the sump and suddenly his air supply had gone. Scared half to death, he’d barely had the presence of mind to grope blindly for his spare valve, turning on the second bottle before sucking greedily at the air.

Somehow he’d managed to carry on, tugging at the line, too scared to follow normal rules, desperate to get back to dry land, to get out of the water. To get away from whatever the fuck was sharing the sump with him. He’d surfaced minutes later, scrambling out of the water, dragging himself up the mud bank, trying to shed the cumbersome bottles as he went.

“Did you see it?” Lyle asked, working on the _know your enemy principle_ , beloved of soldiers everywhere.

Shaw nodded, his face pinched and pale. “Came up after me. Head like a crocodile, but wider, flatter, teeth like bread knives, fat body, short legs. It was an ugly fucker, Jon. Christ, it was ugly. It even had tusks coming out through its sodding nose!”

Shaw had dispatched the creature back into the sump by the simple but effective method of chucking large rocks at it, aiming always for its head. It hadn’t liked that, the caver reported, with the ghost of a grin.

“And if I get out of here alive, I’m moving to Milton Keynes,” Shaw declared, shaking his head, trying to force the images out of his mind.

“Milton Keynes?” Lester asked, feeling vaguely that this was taking surreal conversation beyond the bounds of propriety.

“No caves, and hopefully no fucking crocodiles either.”

“Sounds like a _mastodonsaurus_ ,” Lyle commented, looking thoughtful.

That really did cause Lester’s eyebrows to shoot up in surprise.

The soldier held up a hand defensively, “Hey, I was a kid too!”

“Grow up round here, you learn that sort of thing fast,” muttered Shaw. “Chris is dead, isn’t he?”

With the memory of the head in the sump burnt in his mind like a brand, Lester nodded.

In the hope of avoiding further questioning, he pulled at the clasp of his belt and started removing kit. “Take this lot, Lyle. I’m in no fit state to dive again immediately. Get Shaw out of here before he gets too cold to go back in the water.”

Lyle looked at him like he was mad.

It was Lester’s turn to hold up a hand, “Don’t give me the _I’m not leaving you routine_ , Lieutenant Lyle. Take the kit and get the hell out of here. If you reckon there’s enough air, then come back through if you want, but I’ll be good for at least a day. I packed a survival blanket in the small ammo box and there are at least half a dozen energy bars in there. I won’t starve and I won’t freeze.”

_I’ll be scared out of my fucking wits, but I’m not telling you that. I’ve a good chance of getting through a day, maybe more but Shaw hasn’t, so get that look out of your eyes, you stubborn bugger and get on with it, before my nerve goes and I start demanding a teddy bear!_

Lyle kept his expression strictly neutral, guessing what must be going through Lester’s mind, but knowing that there was no point in arguing. They didn’t have enough working kit to make a safe attempt at getting three of them back through the sump at the same time. To try that, people would have to buddy-breathe off the same bottles, passing a mouthpiece from hand to hand, staying so close as to be almost linked. It was feasible, but fucking difficult and it would leave both of them impossibly vulnerable to attack. And even a simple mishap could be fatal, even if they didn’t encounter the predator.

The Witch King was right, diving again immediately wasn’t an option for him. In half an hour to an hour, probably yes, as by then the adrenaline surge would have started to work through his system, but now, the man was cold, shivery and in borderline shock himself.

Lyle swore softly but vehemently then mentally calculated and re-calculated their air margins, even scribbling figures in the mud to keep track of his thinking. Eventually he nodded. “OK, we can do it and still get us all out without waiting for back up.”

Lester looked skeptical but waited for the soldier to elaborate.

“Once Dave and I get back to base, I’ll need to equalize the air, then bring all four bottles back and equalize again. That’ll leave two for each of us on the return, with just enough air to get us back. We’ll have to breathe all four right down, but it’ll work.” _Just_.

“You’ve got the kit to equalize?”

“Used to be a boy scout. Course I have.There’s a high pressure hose and a spanner in one of the packs,” Lyle grinned.

It was a crazy plan but if his calculations were right, there’d be enough air. OK, their safety margins would be almost zero, but it was better than the alternative, which appeared to be leaving Lester to sit around for a day and contemplate the prospect of being eaten.

“And you’ll dive back carrying all four bottles?” Lester fought hard to keep his voice level.

It was feasible, but fucking dangerous. It would be safer just to leave him and fetch back up. But one glance at the mess of large footprints over to one side of the mud bank made him hope and pray that Lyle really did intend to go through with this lunacy.

“Done worse,” the grin didn’t waiver, “and the good news is you get to keep the rifle. There’s no way I can drag that much gear back through and carry it as well.” _And if the mastodonsaurus comes back, it’ll be better than a few rocks._

While Dave Shaw started to kit up, Lester found himself on the receiving end of a succinct lesson in how to use an M4 assault rifle. More incongruous surroundings would have been hard to imagine. But he made a very attentive pupil.

Ten minutes later, two divers were ready to go back into the water. Lyle would dive first, but Shaw would follow immediately behind.

The soldier looked back over his shoulder, gag in hand and opened his mouth to speak. Lester shook his head. “Don’t say it, Lyle. The _I’ll be back_ line sounds better in films.”

Laughter danced in the hazel eyes, hidden behind the diving mask. “I was going to remind you to take the safety catch off, sir.” With that, Lyle gripped the mouthpiece in his teeth and slid into the sump.

A minute later, Dave Shaw slipped below the surface.

Sir James Lester was alone in the darkness of an unknown chamber deep beneath the surface. Surrounded by blood-red mud in the heart of an ancient iron-mine. Clutching an assault rifle. It wasn’t a teddy bear, but it was the next best thing.

And the memory of a pair of confident hazel eyes made a very good comfort-blanket.

**Clearwell** **Caves** **.Deep Levels. 10am.**

The child’s shriek echoed round a small chamber.And then there was silence.


	7. Chapter 7

The Devil’s Crowll. 5.45am.

So let’s all take our headlamp’s glow  
Where the moonlight never shines  
And we’ll sing this song as down we go  
To the stopes and the levels far below  
Where the mud lies thick and the waters flow  
In the Parys Mountain mine.

Lester glanced at his watch. Half an hour had passed. Christ, it felt like a lifetime.

If they hadn’t run into trouble, Lyle and Shaw should be back at the original dive site by now.

He cursed himself for not asking Lyle how long it would take to equalize the air in the bottles. Ten minutes? Half an hour?

He was cold and tired, but sitting and waiting didn’t hold much appeal. Lester slung the assault rifle over one shoulder and started to explore the chamber. Miners had worked here, that was for sure. Had they come in from a lower level, now flooded? Or was there another passage, lying concealed under the rock debris somewhere around the edge of the churn?

Somewhat to his own surprise, considering his normal attire was Savile Row suits, shirts from Jermyn Street and silk ties, Sir James Lester didn’t feel even remotely self-conscious wearing a wet suit and Wellington boots with a rifle hanging at his side, a pistol strapped to his thigh and a diving knife nestled in an arm sheath. But he still didn’t feel safe. It’d take a tank, a rocket-launcher and an entire Special Forces team to make him start to feel safe again. And even with that sort of back-up, he was beginning to realize that safe was only a relative term.

The thought of a rocket-launcher brought back to mind the memory of Cutter’s irritation with the condition of the T. rex corpses and his thin lips curved into a slight smile. When it came to creatures from the past, Lester made no secret of the fact that he generally favoured Ryan’s preferred solutions. Although the seven super-sized carcasses had stretched even the resources of the Home Office to breaking point. And he was reliably informed that the smell from the warehouse was now in danger of permeating the entire county. Which would no doubt lead to more expense. But departmental budgets weren’t exactly high on his list of things to worry about right now.

On a first examination of the churn he found no obvious way out, although a couple of piles of fractured rock looked like they might repay closer examination. He allowed himself five minutes using his head-torch on its most powerful setting to examine the walls and roof, but again he drew a blank. Dimming the light he went back to an examination of the edges of the chamber. On this setting, Lyle had told him he had enough light for 40 hours. With probably another five hours from his back-up diving lights if needed.

The rock slammed backwards into one of the boulders with a sharp, splintering crack. Lester stood up, straightening up his aching back and grunting slightly with the unaccustomed effort. He was barely fit enough for caving, and he certainly wasn’t fit enough for digging, but the exercise had taken his mind off the waiting and had helped to drive the memories of the dive away, for a while, at least.

Over the noise of his own breathing and the thumping of his heart something else insinuated its way into his consciousness. Snuffling. And the sucking slide of something heavy moving in mud.

Fuck.

He turned, slowly and carefully, reaching round for the rifle, hoping he could remember the instructions for releasing the safety catch and simultaneously cursing the fact that he’d ignored Lyle’s parting words and put the damn thing on in the first place.

Dave Shaw had been right. The creature was an ugly fucker. It was now completely out of the water, squatting on short bow-legs and staring at him with small round eyes. It was difficult not to anthropomorphize the eyes but even if the malice he saw there was only a figment of his adrenaline fueled imagination, the eyes certainly weren’t bloody friendly either, that was for sure.

It blinked slowly in the light of his head-torch. Would the light attract it or repel it? Lester wished he’d spent more time listening to Temple’s ramblings. The answer was almost certainly buried in there somewhere but his brain was in no fit state to go into information retrieval mode. It was actually doing its best to convince him that flight was a better idea than fight, which just showed how easy it was to forget the whole no way out problem.

The snuffling started again, and the mastodonsaurus took another step forward, eyes still fixed on him. Or on the light. But Lester’s brain had reached one conclusion. He wasn’t turning the light off. No way. He didn’t want to die in the dark. He didn’t actually want to die at all, but he was beginning to think he might not have much of a choice about that.

He lifted one hand, very slowly, very carefully, groping with his fingers for the button to switch the lamp to a higher setting.

The creature blinked again in the extra light, but didn’t back off.

Stalemate.

Go back into the water, just turn round, go away, leave me alone. The words ran round in Lester’s head like a mantra, Get the hell out of here, go away. Closely followed again by, Leave me alone! There was even a tiny part of his brain willing to say Please.

Politeness clearly wasn’t working. It took another two steps forward, snuffling again, this time shaking the huge crocodilian head from side to side and opening its mouth slightly. The long tusks drew down through the skull, but it didn’t make the beast look any prettier nor did its sinus problems improve either. Lester wondered vaguely whether the holes in the skull through which the tusks fitted served as nostrils as well, hence the snuffling. Go away, I am not lending you a handkerchief!

The mastodonsaurus took another few steps forward. Deciding that discretion was definitely the better part of valor Lester began to edge carefully backwards, hoping to get one of the large boulders in the chamber between him and the intruder.

Go away!

Another thought suddenly broke into his struggle for mental control. How much time had passed while he’d been pulling out rocks? Could Lyle be on his way back through the sump now? If this ugly bugger went back into the water now, would it meet Lyle coming the other way?

His hands shook slightly and the wavering of the rifle barrel served to remind Lester that he did have another option. He could follow Ryan’s example not Cutter’s. Could he manage to kill the thing? Or would he just enrage it and make matters worse? Decisions, decisions.

Not the sort of questions a desk job in the Civil Service had trained him to answer.

He risked a glance down at his watch. Oh shit. It had been an hour and a half since Lyle had slid into the water. Easily enough time for the soldier to be on his way back. Heavily laden with four bottles, with only a knife for protection, he’d stand no chance against a predator like this. Or had he already met the bastard thing in the water and suffered the same fate as the other diver? Lester’s stomach churned at the thought.

The triangular head swiveled sideways, staring down at the water. Something was disturbing the surface of the sump pool.

Oh dear God! Talk about timing …………

The glow of a lamp underwater dispelled any notion that a second mastodonsaurus might be arriving to join the party. The creature turned, massive jaws gaping wide, displaying a set of teeth more than capable of biting a man’s head off.

Lester grabbed a rock, and threw it hard over to one side of the chamber, away from the pool, trying to distract the mastodonsaurus from the activity in the water. The beast shuffled forward, but not far enough. And it wasn’t distracted enough either. Movement in its own natural habitat was clearly more interesting than movement on land and it started to turn again.

Time to change tactics. Without giving himself time to think about the advisability of playing the live bait game, Lester abandoned the illusion of safety and edged out from behind the boulder and started to make his way across the churn. Picking up rocks and lobbing them in the direction of the mastodonsaurus, like throwing balls for a dog. Except that this brute could have taken on a whole pack of pitbulls and still emerged the winner.

The rocks served their purpose. The mastodonsaurus opened its mouth even wider and ran. Towards him.

Lester dodged to his right, putting himself between the creature and the water. Between it and Lyle. Giving himself a line of fire that wouldn’t result in him accidentally killing the soldier. Or at least so he hoped.

His finger squeezed the trigger. The rifle bucked in his hands. The noise, the muzzle flash and the kick-back scared him to hell and back. He knew almost immediately he’d fired too high. The first shots in the burst had gone right over the creature’s long, low body. The rest had ripped shit out of the roof of the chamber, leaving behind the sharp smells of cordite and fractured rock.

How many bullets did the magazine hold? He had no idea how many shots he’d fired so far, but when he ran out, that was it. He hadn’t a clue how to reload or whether he even had any more ammunition, so he’d better make the next ones count.

The long tail whipped from side to side and the mastodonsaurus shuffled first backwards and then forwards, dragging its heavy body through the mud, clearly uncertain whether to take to the water again or not.

Movement at the edge of the pool drew its attention away from Lester.

Lyle was doing his best to drag himself out of the sump pool, reaching up to try and haul his body out of the water, hampered hugely by the pull of four air cylinders at his waist. Heavy. Unmanouverable. Potentially deadly. Lyle’s eyes, hidden behind the diving mask, had already assessed the threat and Lester saw one pale hand fumble with the belt catch, struggling to release the bottles.

The mastodonsaurus clearly decided that the black thing, half in, half out of the water was a bigger threat that the other black think on land. Water was the predator’s own territory and a challenge from there couldn’t go unanswered. Powerful legs started to carry it forward in a fast scuttle.

There was no time left for over-refining on his shooting technique, or rather lack of it. But he was still scared shitless of hitting Lyle. Get closer, less likely to miss that way. If I survive this, I’ll never grumble about a desk job again! This time he was expecting the noise and the flash of spitting fire and he held the gun down hard, ready for it to buck in his hands. The first bullets tore into the mud but the second burst found their target.

The mastodonsaurus jerked and thrashed, twisting, biting the air, seemingly more furious than hurt. It headed towards the water. And towards the diver. Lyle was trying to scramble clear of the kit, trying to ignore several tons of enraged amphibian heading towards him with an open mouth and probably an equally open mind on the subject of its food supply.

Lester threw himself between Lyle and the creature, desperate to try and buy the soldier enough time to shed the gear. His finger tightened on the trigger again and the gun spat out a third burst of bullets, then something hard and heavy swiped against his legs, brushing him aside like nothing more than an irritating insect.

As he struggled back to his feet, floundering on the slippery, uneven floor, he thought, for a brief and terrifying second, that the mastodonsaurus had Lyle in its jaws then he realized that the beast had actually hurled itself over the other man, trampling him and sending equipment flying in several directions at once. Jaws closed on a steel diving bottle and Lester cringed against what he thought might be a sudden bang, but instead the amphibian shook its head, like a dog with a stick, and the bottle crashed against a boulder by the water’s side. The mastodonsaurus grabbed another and repeated its trick.

Lyle was rolling now, free of the heavy kit belt, free of the bottles, his hand reaching to the pistol holstered at his thigh. Two heavy caliber bullets took the beast through the jaw but it still wasn’t a killing shot. Lyle didn’t hang around for a third close quarter shot. He rolled again, throwing himself up the slope, grabbing with his left hand for something anything to help him get a purchase on the slippery mud.

He’d managed to rip one flipper off a boot, but he was still hampered by the other and movement was difficult. Then strong fingers gripped his and yanked hard, dragging him unceremoniously up the slippery bank of thick red mud.

Something heavy drove his left foot painfully into the mud, flipper and all, then he felt himself showered with water and the noise of a loud splash found its way through the neoprene diving hood. Then everything went very, very still and quiet and all he could hear was the hammering of his own heart.

Lester watched the mastodonsaurus hurl itself into the water, spraying mud, blood and kit around in its wake. Had it gone for good? He fucking hoped so. His nerves were now stretched to breaking point and beyond, his breathing ragged and his hands trembling. He had just enough sense not to touch the rifle, still dangling from the strap around his shoulder.

Lyle reached up and pulled his diving mask down. The soldier’s face was corpse white, but his hazel eyes glittered with life and even a hint of amusement as he gasped, “Hi, honey, I’m home!”

Panic started to drain away, leaving Lester feeling strangely calm and detached. The kit was fucked, it didn’t take close examination to tell that, but they were both alive. They’d worry about the rest later.

“I was beginning to think you’d stood me up, lieutenant.” His eyes slid down to Lyle’s leg and the unmistakable print of a huge mastodonsaurus pressed into the mud on either side of his ankle. “Stay still until I get that flipper off. Then we can see if anything’s broken.”

“Do me one favour first, sir,” said Lyle, sounding surprisingly composed for a man who’d just been run over, quite literally, by something almost twice the size and weight of a Nile Crocodile. In response to Lester’s questioning look, he added, “Put the fucking safety catch back on, please.”

Lester laughed, somewhat shakily, then obliged, conscious of the tremors that still ran through his fingers, leaving his hands feeling like he’d just grabbed hold of an electric wire. He set the gun down carefully and went back to checking the soldier’s leg. After a minute of careful toe wiggling, Lyle declared his leg and foot to be intact, but by tacit agreement, they left the boot on to contain any swelling, knowing that if it came off, the chances were it wouldn’t go back on again.

Lyle’s sharp eyes took in the state of what was left of the diving kit. One bottle lay half in and half out of the water, the pillar valve twisted at an impossible angle. The second had a deep gouge running down its length and the valve had been sapped off entirely. The diving line had clearly been broken but even without that, with two bottles destroyed, there was no way they had enough air for the return trip.

His eyes slid over to Lester. The civil servant was ice-white and his hands still shook as helped Lyle out of the remainder of the diving kit, depositing the weight belt into the mud, then holding his helmet while Lyle dragged off the hood and ran muddy fingers through his short hair, glad to be free of it’s confines, and to be able to hear properly again. He settled the helmet back in place again, knowing he needed to try and stand up, but not looking forward to discovering how badly damaged he’d been by Mr. I’ve Got Tusks Sticking Up My Nose. What the hell had he ever seen in these things as a kid? What was wrong with hamsters anyway?

With Lester’s help, he struggled upright and limped over to the far side of the churn, away from the water. He set the rifle down on a boulder and sank down onto drier, firmer mud, allowing himself the momentary luxury of putting his head between his knees and closing his eyes, giving himself time to get used to the fact that he’d just survived three dives in the Devil’s Crowll, plus an encounter with the Creature from the Black Lagoon.

The loss of the diving kit was a bugger and meant they’d be stuck here for a least a day, maybe two, but that by itself was unlikely to prove fatal, and it wasn’t in Lyle’s nature to look back on what might have been. Not when the present still demanded all of his attention.

He felt a light touch on his shoulder. Lester was holding out half of an energy bar. Lyle took it without protest. They both needed something to help stave off shock. He also noticed that Lester had methodically gathered up all the kit that was left and spread it out on the flat-topped boulder. Fortunately it included the box with the food bars, the emergency foil blankets and the spare ammunition. Things were looking up.

“Food, then rest,” said the civil servant in the sort of voice that made his underlings scurry for cover.

Lyle didn’t feel inclined to argue. He was just too fucking knackered.

Lester spread one of the survival-blankets on floor of the chamber. He knew that if they were to survive until help arrived, they would need to conserve body heat. Hypothermia was now their biggest enemy, and it would kill as surely as an enraged prehistoric amphibian, just not as fast. He sat down carefully on the thin, strong foil, making sure it was between him and the cave floor and walls as much as possible. He then unpacked the second blanket and gave Lyle a prod with his booted foot.

“Time for a cuddle, sweetie,” he said, keeping his voice light.

Lyle’s grin hovered just short of total exhaustion. Lester was right. Sharing body heat was the only sensible thing to do in these circumstances. He settled down in front of the other man, maneuvering carefully between his thighs and leaning back gratefully against a chest that suddenly felt as almost as comfortable and welcoming as one of the hotel sofas.

With the other foil blanket tucked around them, and his rifle no more than six inches from his hand, Lieutenant Jon Lyle let himself slide without protest into his first moments of sleep for over twenty four hours.

Lester settled his arms around him under the survival blankets.

The soldier made an unlikely teddy bear, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.


	8. Chapter 8

Clearwell Caves. Deep Levels. 10am.

So let’s be off, me brave recruits  
Grab a pair of gloves and some decent boots  
And we’ll all head down in our boiler suits  
To the Parys Mountain Mine!  
And when we’re done, it’s off again  
To the bar of the Pilot Boat by ten  
Where we’ll drink to the glory once again  
Of the Parys Mountain Mine!

Sheelagh Sandford reached out and grabbed the girl’s belt as the kid started to slide, “Got you!” she exclaimed with a cheerful grin, the shriek still echoing round the chamber. “Keep hold of the rope on this bit, Beth, and keep your feet flat on the slope, its easier that way. Just walk down, leaning backwards. Fred’ll hold you tight on the life-line.”

Fred Willett, a cheerful man in his early sixties bearing more than a passing resemblance to an over-sized garden gnome, let out the life-line steadily as the twelve year old girl did her best to follow Sheelagh’s instructions. The kids were doing well, considering none of them had ever caved before. Beth was the last one down this particular climb.

Sheelagh slithered to the bottom of the slope and reached out to unclip the girl from the line at exactly the same moment as one of the other kids let out a yell that echoed like a pistol shot round the churn.

The guide swivelled round, wondering what the hell had happened, but before she had chance to frame a question, the boy, Roger? Jason? screamed again and pointed to a passage on the far side of the chamber. “Eyes! There’s something watching us!”

“It’s just water droplets on the cave walls,” said Sheelagh, automatically. “Rope free, Fred!”

“It moved, I saw it!”

Fred came down the slope, remarking, “It’s a trick of the light, lad. Come on, the next bit’s nice and easy.”

 

The Devil’s Crowll, 6.30am.

Sir James Lester fought desperately against the urge to close his eyes and drift off to sleep, but the memory of an ugly, over-sized, nasally-challenged prehistoric crocodile was still all too vivid. If another of the buggers came out of the water, he didn’t want to be anything other than wide awake.

Lyle had shifted slightly under the light covering of the survival blanket, his head now resting on Lester’s chest, with one leg nestled over his thigh. The soldier’s breathing was deep and even. Lester felt for his fingers under the covering. They were colder than they should be, so he held Lyle’s hands lightly, sharing heat. He moved again, then relaxed, his strong fingers comfortably entwined with Lester’s.

Time passed slowly, seemingly at a crawl, a black, painful, cold crawl.

Lester would need some sleep himself soon, but he was determined to give the other man as much recovery time as possible.

One thing that was becoming more urgent, even if it was helping him stay awake, was the internal pressure on his bladder. He’d need to pee sometime soon, that was for sure.

He tried to distract himself with some mental calculations.

How long would they have to wait for rescue?

Lyle’s lads wouldn’t have hung around, he knew that much. Dave Shaw had been borderline hypothermic even before the dive back. He needed to start heading for the surface straightway, and it would take both Blade and Finn to get him there. If they made it out inside six hours, without help, it’d be nothing short of a miracle.

It would take at least a couple of hours to even start getting another diving team together.

The Aggie rescue would be tying up cavers from both South Wales and Mendip, and if they had to get divers down from Derbyshire or the North, they’d be lucky to have back-up in the Forest before early evening, maybe later.

And knowing what had been lurking in the sump, would anyone be mad enough to dive? Christ, he fucking hoped they would. But whatever happened, they couldn’t really expect anyone before at least the same time tomorrow. Another twenty four hours.

Instinctively, his arms tightened around the sleeping soldier. Lyle made a small sound in his throat, but his movements were into the encircling arms not away from them.

A moment later, the hairs on the back of Lester’s neck started to prickle and his skin suddenly crawled with tension.

He stared first at the sump pool, expecting to find a snuffing, shuffling mastodonsaurus heaving itself out of the water …………….. but there was nothing to see.

Then, a heartbeat later, a light, where no light should be, drew his eyes like moths to a candle and he found the cause of his unease standing over on the far left of the churn, framed in flickering shards and sporting a faintly supercilious smile.

“Very cozy,” said Helen Cutter, pointing her torch straight into Lester’s eyes.

“Nice target,” muttered Lyle, coming awake in the space of another heartbeat, moving with smooth speed, swinging his rifle up to rest almost casually on one raised knee, as he flicked the laser sight on just for effect.

The red dot on her chest didn’t affect the woman’s composure in the least, but a moment later, her expression did change as the fractured light of the anomaly hanging in the air behind her winked once, then shimmered twice and abruptly faded.

It was probably the first and only time that Lester had ever Helen Cutter look afraid and in spite of their circumstances, he tucked the moment away to be treasured and brought out on high days and holidays, when he needed cheering up.

“A visitor, how nice,” he remarked, in his usual supercilious tone.

His words were greeted by heavy silence, punctuated only by slow, steady drips of water from the roof into the pool.

“She didn’t expect that,” remarked Lyle. “Now she’ll just have to slum it down here with us.” Keeping the rifle trained on her, the soldier shifted position to kneel on the muddy floor, staring at his target along the barrel of his gun. Just the way he liked it. “Any suggestions, sir?”

“We could always eat her, if we’re stuck here long enough,” said Lester, not bothering to hide his amusement. “Good morning, Mrs. Cutter, so kind of you to drop by.”

“Dr Cutter.”

Lester shrugged one narrow shoulder, his lips sliding easily into his trademark sneer, “Whatever.”

The look of pure venom on the woman’s face almost made up for the last ten hours.

There were times when Sir James Lester really enjoyed annoying people and this was one of them.

Taking care not to foul Lyle’s aim, he eased himself upright, using the cave wall for support, as his cold, over-stretched muscles protested against every movement, no matter how slight.

“Lieutenant Lyle’s right, isn’t he, Mrs. Cutter? You didn’t expect that anomaly to close so quickly. And from the look you’re giving me, you don’t know when it’ll reopen either, do you? Or even if it’ll reopen.” Abruptly, his voice hardened. “Search her for weapons, Lyle. If she resists, you can hurt her if you need to.”

Lyle grinned and handed the rifle to Lester.

Helen took a step backwards.

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, lady,” said the soldier in a voice as cold and dark as the water in the pool. “But before you try anything silly, remember that Darren Cooper is a nice lad, with a wife he adores, and a little baby girl, and I bet he isn’t feeling too good right now about what you did with him.”

“And your point is what, Lieutenant Lyle?” Helen Cutter’s own sneer fell well short of its normal strength, but he still gave her some marks for effort.

“My point is that I’ll be quite happy to hurt you.”

As he spoke, Lyle’s hand shot out and in two quick moves he caught her hands, twisted her round and forced her down over one thigh, back bent, face staring up at him, contorted with anger.

He dragged the pack off her, tossing it casually to Lester, then proceeded with a swift but thorough body-search, relieving her of two long knives and the belt of her trousers, just for good measure.

When he’d finished, Lyle dumped her unceremoniously on her arse in the mud and backed away, taking her torch with him. “Now sit there and pretend to be a nice little paleontologist.”

The look she gave him would have curdled milk.

The look Lyle gave her in return could have defined the word insouciant.

 

Clearwell Caves. Upper Levels. 10.10am.

Stringer lent against the passage wall and glanced across at Ryan. “Half of them out and no trouble. Reckon it’s a false alarm?”

The other captain shook his head, “We’re not that fucking lucky.”

“So we’re going down after the party with the kids?”

Ryan nodded. “Mary says there are two main routes. So we split up. She leads one group, Jim’ll take the other. We leave Arwen and two lads on the surface to deal with any problems up here. You take Aragorn and Merry, with Fizz, Fiver and Phil. I’ll take Faramir and Pippin, plus Ditzy, Kermit and Dane. OK? Give ‘em all guns, whether they want ‘em or not. I’ve got a bad feeling about this.”

“It’s a hole in the ground, mate, so the bad feeling goes without saying, but yeah, I’m not liking this much either. And Lyle does this sort of thing for fun? Jeez, I’d sooner base-jump without a cord.”

“Get your lot ready, we move in five.” Stringer was right, jumping off high buildings with or without a bit of bungee cord was more appealing than caving, but in this job you didn’t get to pick and choose.

They had the usual argument with Cutter about the guns. Christ, the guy could be a pain in the ass at times. What part of big teeth did he always forget?

Mary Mitchell simply strapped the holster to her thigh and asked for a quick lesson on how to reload the Browning.

She stowed the spare clips inside her oversuit and glanced round to check everyone was ready. “Follow me. If any of you really can’t handle it, for Chrissake tell me sooner rather than later. Ryan, stay behind me. Ditzy, I want you at the back. Don’t split up, whatever happens. We’re going down, we’re gonna find the kids and get’em back out. They’re on a circular trip. Jim’s lot are going the other way and when we find them, we get the hell out of here by the shortest route.”

Stephen reached over and gave Ryan’s gloved hand a quick squeeze. He wasn’t too worried by caves, but he could feel his lover’s tension, even without touching him. He leant forward and whispered in the other man’s ear, “When we’re done here, I’ll give you the best blow-job you’ve ever had, as public or as private as you like.”

Tension turned to laughter and Ryan returned the squeeze. “I’ll hold you to that, sweetie.”

And then they were off, following Mary down the passage, moving quickly and easily through the well lit parts of the tourist cave. As they entered one of the biggest churns, sometimes used to hold concerts in, according to the sign on the wall, they met the last of the tourists being shepherded back to the surface.

“We want our money back!” a large man was grumbling loudly.

“There’s a nice lady on the surface who’ll sort that out for you, sir,” said one of the soldiers, “Now do us all a favour and hurry on, please.”

And five minutes later they left the well travelled paths behind and climbed through one of the iron gates that led down into the Deep Levels.

If a bunch of kids can do it, so can I, thought Ryan, but he still couldn’t get rid of the icy fingers that insisted on stroking their way up and down his spine.

 

The Devil’s Crowll, 6.50am.

Lester slid the zip down on his wetsuit and braced himself against the sharp tug Lyle gave the neoprene to drag it off his shoulders and down over his arms, leaving the top half of the suit hanging loose.

The cold air in the chamber slid over his bare skin like silk and he shivered. The touch of Lyle’s fingers on his neck and shoulders might have had something to do with it as well, but it was better for his composure to concentrate on the cold.

Without bothering to look round, the civil servant remarked, “You can avert your eyes in a ladylike manner, Mrs. Cutter, or you can watch me having a pee but for the record, I really couldn’t care either way,” and with a considerable amount of perverse satisfaction, Lester proceeded to deal with the problem that, for a brief period, had become even more pressing than the earlier mastodonsaurus attack.

“I thought divers peed in their wetsuits when they were cold?” said Helen, making it quite clear from her tone of voice that she’d elected to watch.

Lyle laughed as he struggled with the zip on his own suit, “Not if you’re going to be in it for the next umpteen hours, you don’t. It’s a short lived pleasure, and you’re cold again a minute later, and after that you’ve got the joys of wetsuit-rash to look forward to.”

“How fascinating.”

“You started it,” remarked the soldier, turning round and offering his own back to Lester.

“I’ll make a note of this under the heading alpha-male behaviour designed to impress, shall I?”

“Bloody academics,” grinned Lyle. “There’s no fooling you, is there? Anyone else would simply think we’re two blokes busting for a piss, but have it your own way.”

Lester’s hands shook with suppressed laughter as he hauled the wetsuit off Lyle’s shoulders.

His eyes slid down a strong tanned back and for a fleeting moment he imagined running his hands over Lyle’s smooth muscles. For once, the mingled smells of sweat and rubber didn’t seem quite as unappealing as usual.

Fortunately, he was too cold for any outward sign of his thoughts to be evident as he had a nasty feeling that Helen Cutter’s sharp eyes wouldn’t miss much, even across the distance of the dimly lit churn.

“Your turn for some sleep, sir,” said Lyle quietly. “Take an hour, then I suggest we find a place to start digging and chuck a few rocks about, just to keep warm. That’s if madam’s taxi hasn’t turned up by then. Do you want me to tie her up?”

Lester glanced over at the sump pool. For all they knew, the mastodonsaurus would still return. Bound, the woman wouldn’t stand a chance. He shook his head regretfully and settled down again on the survival blanket, leaning back against Lyle, in the reverse of their earlier position, taking care to leave the soldier’s right hand free to rest on the M4 at his side.

“I’d offer my services, just to prove there’s no hard feelings, but I suppose sharing body heat with a woman isn’t high on your list of preferences, Sir James?”

“Are you trying to insult me or proposition me, Mrs. Cutter?”

Her snort was answer enough. Helen Cutter clearly wasn’t used to being turned down.

What the hell had Hart and Cutter ever seen in the woman? Having a relationship with her would have been like trying to court a snapping turtle. Lester had made some mistakes in his own personal life, who hadn’t, but really ……..

“She’s a dead ringer for Ryan’s ex-Mrs,” muttered Lyle. “No wonder him and Hart fuck like bunnies. They’ve a lot to forget!”

Lester gave a quiet snort of laughter and shifted position slightly, trying to avoid squirming against Lyle’s crotch but not entirely succeeding. “She’s enough to put anyone off women for life. Is it ‘cos she’s got too many degrees?”

Lyle’s breath was warm against Lester’s ear and the arm looped around his waist tightened comfortably as the Special Forces lieutenant answered, “Nah, it’s ‘cos she’s a bitch.”

 

Clearwell Caves. Deep Levels. 10.35am.

“Lights ahead,” said Mary, entirely failing to keep the relief out of her voice. “Looks like we’re onto a winner, guys.”

And then a second later the screaming started.

Professional reflexes took fear by the scruff of the neck, fought dirty and won. Ryan was no more than two steps behind Mary as they entered the churn at a run. She ducked to the right, clearing his line of fire. It was fucking chaos and for a second his brain wouldn’t take it in. What in the name of hell were these things?

There were bodies on the ground. One large, two small. The large one wasn’t moving.

Something was bending over one of the smaller bodies, a child, as it tried desperately to scramble away. Jaws gaped, head lowered. About to bite and rip. It looked like a sort of mini-tyrannosaur. Maybe two metres tall, and about three in length, with tail held stiffly off the ground. Short forelimbs but powerful hind legs.

Ryan dropped to one knee, swinging his rifle up, checking automatically that he wasn’t about to blow a hole in someone standing behind the creature, and then he was firing, and the noise was so loud in the confines of the chamber that even the screaming stopped for a moment.

The first shots took it in the chest, then a head twice the size of a pitbull’s exploded in a spray of blood and bone and the creature was knocked off its feet to slam wetly into the cave wall, leaving red trails down a once white flowstone formation.

The others, five, six, more? scattered out of sight, out of the chamber. And then the screaming started again.

 

The Devil’s Crowll, 8.15am.

The torch beam cut through the water like a hot knife through butter …… sightless eyes stared up at him from the mud …… silt particles danced like a million tiny flies …… buzzing around the red ruin of a throat …… his own throat …… no, not his own …… it hadn’t claimed him yet …… but it was there, coming closer ……and there was no way to safety … …the diving line lay around him in pieces ……and his fingers scrabbled uselessly in their attempts to tie the bits together……but he’d forgotten what knots to use ……and the eyes were mocking him ……and scraps of flesh floated raggedly around the chin-strap of the helmet ……and the eyes blinked in the dim light of his lamp ……

Strong arms held him protectively as Lester’s own eyes jerked open, fear twisting his mind and clawing at his senses, raw and painful. His stomach rolled and sickness rose in his throat.

“Easy … … …it was a dream, it was only a fucking dream, mate,” Lyle’s hands held his and gripped hard. “Take a deep breath … … … and another … … … that’s it … … … keep breathing. You’re OK, sir … … … I’ve got you.”

The Special Forces lieutenant pressed his thumbs hard into the backs of the other man’s hands, rubbing in small circles, forcing the contact on him, reminding him he was still alive. OK, still stuck underground in a fucking cave as well, but still alive, and at the moment, that was all that mattered.

As soon as he felt Lester start to breathe more evenly, Lyle loosened his grip and moved his hands to the back of the man’s neck and started to dig his thumbs in, finding knots in tense muscles and working on them, and even through five millimetres of neoprene the massage started to take effect and he felt Lester expel a long, shuddering breath.

Lyle couldn’t afford his companion to lose it now, not when they had Mrs. Fucking Cutter to contend with. Even though she was unarmed he had no intention of underestimating the woman. If he had his way she’d be bound and gagged, and sod the prospect of a return visit from Mr. Snuffly.

The soldier acknowledged the fact that they were both knackered, there was no getting away from that, but Lyle was still a long way off his physical and mental limits and Lester wasn’t. Which worried him.

Lyle’s hands kept up their work, easing down stiff shoulders, towards the spine, kneading, stroking, digging deep into the muscles and bringing much needed relief from cramp and pain.

He’d once spent thirty-six hours underground with Ditzy in the Berger. The medic might be a sarcastic sod with cold hands, but he gave one hell of a good back rub, and on the few occasions he’d managed to wangle his way ahead of the three girls on the trip, Lyle had picked up a few tips. And what he learnt down there seemed to be working now. At least Lester didn’t feel like he was about to break apart any minute.

Helen Cutter opened her mouth to speak but the look Lyle gave her killed any remark stone-dead and she went back to fiddling with her boot laces.

Five minutes later, Lester muttered, “Thanks. Severed heads aren’t my favourite thing. I think I’d prefer to drag a few rocks about for a while rather than sleep now. I checked the side wall while you were gone, but I couldn’t find a draught. A couple of places looked worth another poke, though.”

So for the next hour, they took it in turns to shift rocks. One of them digging, the other standing, or mostly sitting, guard over the kit, making sure Helen couldn’t get close enough to grab a gun or a knife. The digging was back-breaking work, but it kept the cold at bay. They kept it up in ten minute shifts.

It wasn’t in Lyle’s nature just to sit around and wait to be rescued, and he sure as hell didn’t fancy hitching a ride out of here with the Cutter woman, even if her deus ex machina did turn up again. But from the sour look on her face, that didn’t look too likely a prospect.

In the times when he wasn’t hauling rocks, attempts at subtle interrogation hadn’t got him very far, but because it clearly annoyed her, he kept trying.

“So why send a message back with Kermit?”

“Just trying to be helpful, lieutenant.”

“Like you were when you warned the Mitchell’s not to buy the hotel?”

She shrugged, “It’s no place to bring up kids, you can’t argue with that. But they didn’t listen.”

“So where do you spend your time when you’re not romping around on an extended field-trip to the Permian or whenever?”

“Here and there.”

And where do you get your money from? Lyle wondered. That’s a newish pair of boots you’re wearing, and those trousers aren’t eight years old, either. 

There’d been no cash or credit cards in the rucksack, and no notebook either, which had irritated Lester immensely. She was a researcher, they were usually pathologically attached to their notebooks, but she didn’t even have a pen on her. So where was the bloody woman’s lair? Find that, and they might start to find some answers.

Lyle helped Lester heave one large rock backwards then leant on the wall, running a filthy hand across his face. The civil servant ignored his protesting muscles and slid to his knees to stare into the space they’d just cleared.

They were digging through deads. Which was the name the miners gave the discarded rock they stacked up during their search for ore. It wasn’t an uncommon practice to have back-filled unwanted passages almost completely once an area had been deemed worked out and sometimes entire chambers, like this one, were sealed off. It wasn’t impossible that they’d find a way through, but it was bloody unlikely. Picking the right spot was the problem.

Lester sat back on his heels for a minute, feeling light-headed from lack of food and sleep. They couldn’t keep this up for much longer, but for now, neither of them seemed to want to call a halt.

A sudden breath of cold air drifted across his face and Lester felt that strange prickle again in the back of his neck.

The water in the pool was undisturbed.

Lyle was still perched on the top of a large boulder, looking entirely unconcerned.

Helen Cutter was leaning back against another rock, her eyes closed, but clearly not sleeping.

So what was bothering him?

He leant forward, wondering whether a rock had shifted and was allowing air through from beyond the churn.

Nothing.

But the hairs on his neck kept rising.

Behind him, Lyle’s whisper sounded disproportionately loud in the silence of the chamber, “What the fuck ……..?”

Lester’s eyes swiveled sideways, staring in the same direction as the soldier.

The old man stared back at both of them.


	9. Chapter 9

Clearwell Caves. Deep Levels. 10.50am.

So let’s all take our headlamp’s glow  
Where the moonlight never shines  
And we’ll sing this song as down we go  
To the stopes and the levels far below  
Where the mud lies thick and the waters flow  
In the Parys Mountain mine.

Connor bent over the body and gave a low whistle. “Oh shit.”

“What is it?” demanded Ryan. “And don’t say dead.”

“Dead sounds good to me,” muttered the student, forgetting he was wearing a helmet and trying to run a grimy hand through his hair. “You’ve seen Jurassic Park, right?”

Ryan nodded, knowing that he wasn’t going to like whatever was coming next. This thing, or one of it’s friends, had ripped out the old guy’s throat and somehow managed to make a fucking great big hole in his guts as well.

Ditzy had taken one look at the poor sod and shaken his head. Feeling for a pulse when most of the neck was missing was pretty pointless. He was a medic, not a miracle worker. A long slime of yellow entrails lay untouched on the muddy floor. Trying to stuff them back wouldn’t help either.

“So which part of the cast’s arrived to haunt us now?”

“Remember the scene near the end with the raptors? Well, this lot are like them only smarter and more dangerous.”

“Those buggers could open doors!”

“Well, these buggers could probably change the locks as well. Deinonychus. If you want it in English, Terrible Claw. They’re predators. They’re smart and they’re mean.” As an afterthought, he added, “The debate about whether they actually hunted in packs hasn’t been settled yet.”

“Looked like a pack to me,” muttered Stephen, watching in horrific fascination as Connor gingerly lifted one of the dead beast’s hind feet and displayed a large, curved and distinctly blood-stained claw which seemed to take the place of the second toe. A claw that was longer than Connor’s entire hand.

Ditzy walked over and provided a welcome distraction from contemplation of the claw.

“Five kids missing, sir,” reported the medic. “The guide’s got a slash on her arm down to the bone. I’ve got a bandage on it, but we need to start moving them before shock sets in too far. Two of the kids are hurt. Two seem OK.” If any child could be described as OK after seeing someone’s throat and guts being ripped out.

“Can they walk?”

“One yes, the other no. The guide’ll need help. I can carry one kid.”

“Get’em out of here. Take Dane. Come back after if you can.” Ryan wished he didn’t have to ask the next question, but he had little choice. “Connor, Mary, will you stay?”

“There are kids missing and you don’t know your way around,” said Mary. “I’ll stay.”

“Me too,” said Connor. He gave a shaky laugh then shot a glance at Stephen, half scared, half excited. “I’ve always believed they were pack hunters, but I never thought I’d find out the hard way. Can you track them?”

Stephen Hart looked down at the muddy floor of the chamber.

The deinonychus’ prints stood out at a distance of several metres. Blood pooled in one of them. Obscenely bright and wet in the lamp-light.

“I can track them. The question you should be asking is whether they can track us.”

 

The Devil’s Crowll. 9.15am.

The pile of rocks grew rapidly in inverse proportion to the shortening of Helen Cutter’s temper.

Neither of the men had been willing to explain why they’d suddenly abandoned the place they’d spent the last hour excavating, in favour of another spot, no more than two metres to the left. Which looked identical. Absolutely fucking identical.

Her questions had been met with an irritatingly impenetrable silence coupled with some even more annoying shared looks. If these two weren’t screwing yet they bloody well soon would be, in her view.

What the hell was it with men these days? Had half of the UK’s Special Forces developed a penchant same-sex relationships? Even she had to admit it had been a surprise when she’d seen Stephen on his knees in front of their monosyllabic but attractive captain, with the man’s cock down his throat. When had that started? Hart had been strictly heterosexual as a student, she could vouch for that.

In his first year he’d cheerfully screwed his way round half the campus, or so it had seemed. The combination of cornflower blue eyes, black hair and eyelashes long enough to make Bambi weep with jealousy had ensured a steady stream of girls through his bedroom door. But by the end of the first term, Helen had known he was hers for the taking. She’d played with him a while longer, feigning indifference, amused by the way his natural ability to flirt deserted him completely as soon as she came into the room.

When she’d finally made her move, the look in his eyes had been an intoxicating mixture of hope and anticipation, with a side-order of lust. He’d not proved to be too bad in bed either, although he’d needed some education.

She sighed and glanced over her shoulder. 

The anomaly was taking it’s time reappearing. It had surprised her by fading so quickly, she couldn’t deny that, but what had surprised her even more was finding company down here. That really hadn’t been something she’d expected. She’d only popped through for a quick look around, to check if anything had changed and the damned thing had caught her out. And even she had to admit that on this occasion, she was glad that she hadn’t been alone, just in case it didn’t reappear on schedule.

Her hand went automatically to the rucksack at her side and she felt the comforting lump of the lodestone.

The two men were still taking it in turns to work, ten minutes on, ten minutes off, unless it took both of them to drag out a particularly stubborn boulder. She contented herself with keeping an eye on the glistening surface of the pool, checking to make sure they weren’t about to be graced by a return visit from the mastodonsaurus. The damn thing should have found the way back to its own time by now, but you could never tell when the lure of easy prey would cause the beasts to hand around.

The soldier lent back on his heels, filthy and panting. “There’s airspace beyond. I can see it.”

“What’s the roof look like?” asked an equally grimy Lester. That had been another surprise. She hadn’t thought the slimy little toad had it in him to have risked his neck like this.

“OK. Seen worse. Another few rocks and we can give it a try.”

They set to again like a pair of terriers trying to make a break for freedom under a fence.

She doubted if anyone in Whitehall would recognize the usually immaculate Sir James Lester now. Sweat was running down from beneath his helmet, in spite of the chill of the chamber, and every time he wiped it away, all he did was transfer more red mud to a face that was already caked with the stuff. His language had rapidly deteriorated to the same level as the soldier’s as it became more awkward to work under the overhang they were rapidly creating.

Ten minutes later, Lester slithered backwards hauling one large, sharp-sided rock out with him, seemingly oblivious to the fact that he’d gashed the back of his hand and blood was now mixing freely with the mud. The look of triumph in his eyes said it all.

“I can get through, but it’s not fat bastard size yet. Do you want me to shift a few more rocks?”

Lyle grinned. “Who got stuck on the pitch?”

“Leg length, dear boy, that was the only problem. This is a straight squeeze into the next churn, and it looks a decent size through there. Shall I take a look?”

“Be my guest. I’ll keep an eye on Mrs. C. Don’t want her running off with the kit, do we?”

“And where do you think I might run to, lieutenant?” asked Helen, raising one, clean, well-defined eyebrow.

“The Permian, the Cretaceous, the Fuck-Knows-Where ……… you name it, I expect you to run to it. And I’d rather you didn’t do it with my assault rifle, thank you very much. And I take it your taxi’s late?”

“What makes you think I know when the anomalies will reappear?”

“The use of re-appear, rather than appear, is a bit of a give away, in my opinion, but hey, I just shoot things for a living, so what would I know?” Abruptly, his attention shifted from her to Lester’s boots, as they slid through the hole and disappeared from sight. “Does it go?”

“Sure as hell does,” came back the faint echo of the civil servant’s voice from the other side of the squeeze. “Big churn, at least two passages leading off. Life’s looking up, Lyle! Give me five, and I’ll be back.”

“Watch yourself!” Lyle positioned himself by the rock pile, his hand resting protectively on the rifle. “So, looks like we’re out of here. Coming along for the ride?”

Helen Cutter stared at him, unable to disguise her curiosity any longer, “So why did you change where you were digging?”

“We’d chosen the wrong spot.”

“Obviously, but how did you work that out?” Without discussing it?

Lyle grinned. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me.”

“You’re not my type, sweetie.”

Helen sighed. “What does a girl have to do to get some attention around here? Grow a penis?”

Lyle’s grin broadened, “I can’t imagine that’d be an improvement, but you’re welcome to try.” He leant down to the hole, listening for any noises carrying back from the other side. “So, how do you work out when and where the things will appear?”

“So, how did you work out you were digging in the wrong place?”

“We saw a ghost and he showed us the right place.”

“And I read the Anomaly Timetable on the Internet. Pull the other one, Lieutenant Lyle. Are you going to tell me the truth or not?”

“I just did, Mrs. Cutter, but I rather suspect you wouldn’t recognize the truth if it was served up on a plate with a sprig of holly on top.”

Her retort was lost in the sound of rocks being dragged out from the other side of the squeeze.

Two minutes later, Lester wriggled back through.

“Don’t say I never do anything for you, sweetheart. You should make it now without too much problem. Both passages go. So, do I take it we aren’t just going to sit around here waiting to be rescued?”

“Too bloody right, we’re not. I haven’t been rescued from a cave yet, and I don’t intend to start now.” Lyle glanced over at Helen, “You’re not exactly dressed for this, you’ll have to watch your head.”

“And where do you think you’re going to end up if you go off through there?”

“The bottom end of the Clearwell System, I hope.” Something very close to alarm flickered across Helen Cutter’s face and Lyle’s hazel eyes narrowed sharply. “What’s bothering you, lady? The thought of a couple of hours inappropriately dressed clambering around in the mud, or something a little bit more specific?”

“I’d prefer to take my chance on the anomaly returning rather than dash off into the wild brown yonder following you two.”

Lyle glanced over at Lester. “Your call, sir.”

Lester shrugged. “We can hardly drag her along kicking and screaming.” His expression was dismissive, designed to irritate Helen. “So how far do you think we’ve got to go, Lyle, and are we just going to get stuck at the bottom of a pitch?”

“How far? Difficult to be sure, but according to the surveys, the bottom of Clearwell is no more than two thousand metres from the bottom of the Crowll, and we must have covered about half of that under water. Clearwell isn’t particularly vertical, unlike the Crowll, so if we’re lucky, we might be walking out of the show cave in the next few hours.” He was answering Lester’s question, but watching Helen at the same time. “The only ladders are the fixed ones from the Deep Levels up to the main tourist areas.”

There was still something about the expression on the woman’s face whenever he mentioned Clearwell that Lyle didn’t like. Acting on impulse, the soldier shot out a hand and gripped her wrist, yanking her towards him, off-balance and vulnerable.

“Is there another of your bloody anomalies through there, Mrs. Cutter? Are we just going to walk straight into yet another re-run of Jurassic Fucking Park?” She tried to twist out of his grip, but stood no chance. Lyle had all the advantages of strength, skill and training and he didn’t subscribe to any cultural taboos against hurting a woman. “Tell me what you know and I won’t break anything.”

“Call your fucking animal off, Lester!”

“I seem to have mud in my ears,” remarked Sir James Lester, quietly.

“You had your chance,” muttered Lyle, giving Helen’s wrist a sharp twist. “Now stop holding back before I really do hurt you. What’s waiting for us on the other side that you seem so keen on avoiding?”

“There’s always been more than one anomaly in this area,” panted Helen, a look of pure venom in her eyes. “If Clearwell is where you say it is, then the chances are that something else may have come through. This area seems to have been unusually active recently.”

Thinking back to a close encounter with seven tyrannosauruses, Lyle couldn’t help but agree with her. “They take tourists into Clearwell,” said the soldier, in a calm, dangerous voice.

“Then they’d better have good insurance cover,” said Helen, as she tried, and failed, to land a kick behind Lyle’s knee.

Hazel eyes met brown, and a slight nod from Lester was all that Lyle needed.

A second later, Helen Cutter stared down at her right hand in surprise, seeing her little finger sticking out at an unnatural angle to the side of her hand. Knife sharp pain penetrated her brain a split second later and she wasn’t able to choke back her scream.

“You fucking bastard, you’ve broken it!”

“Tell me what might be down there, or I’ll go for the matching set. I haven’t the time or the patience for subtlety and I’m gonna count to three ……. one ……… two ……….”

“Dromaeosaurs called Deinonychus … …Related to raptors!” She spat the words at him like a curse, cradling her hand in the crook of her arm, tears of pain springing treacherously into her eyes. “But I doubt they can climb ladders.”

“They take trips into the Deep Levels as well. Adventure caving, it’s called.” With a look of pure disgust on his face, Lyle caught her hand again and made another sharp movement. To Helen’s amazement, the stab of white hot pain subsided into a dull ache. “I only dislocated it. But give me half an excuse and I’ll break the next one, believe me.” Ignoring her muttered obscenities, he turned to Lester, his voice now urgent, “They take kids on those trips, sir. And this bitch doesn’t seem to care.”

Lester’s eyes flickered to the hole under the rock wall and he nodded. Without another word, Lyle shoved his rifle into the squeeze, and followed it through, leaving Lester to stare thoughtfully at Helen Cutter. “Do you really not care what happens to children, Dr. Cutter? Or does survival of the fittest apply to the young of the species as well, so far as you’re concerned?”

As he dragged himself through the squeeze, the civil servant barely heard her final words.

“Mind their feet, Lester. Deinonychus don’t clip their toe-nails and they can disembowel you with one swipe. And contrary to your trained ape’s opinion, I do care. Although I’ll make an exception where you two are concerned.”

 

Clearwell Caves. Deep Levels. 11am.

“What happens if we shout?” asked Ryan.

“Then they’ve a better chance of hearing us,” said Mary. “Or wasn’t that what you meant? Connor, how will your beasties react?”

Connor shrugged, his mud-streaked face pale, but composed. “I wish I knew. If they’re hungry it might attract them. But the one thing in our favour is that they’re out of their natural habitat, it’s dark, cold and muddy. They won’t be liking this.”

“They’re not the only ones,” muttered a grim-faced Ryan. “OK, we take a chance and start yelling. Is there any way of searching this warren systematically, Mary?”

The caver shook her head. “Not with our numbers, not if we don’t split up. And there’s no way we’re doing that, so follow me.” And with that she was off again, pausing every minute or so to yell, “Hello! We’re here to help you! It’s safe to come out!”

They found the first child quickly, a boy of about ten, cowering in a small alcove so close to the ground that they almost missed him. He was curled into a ball, his head tucked into his arms.

Kermit hauled the lad out and settled him on one hip like an overgrown baby. “It’s OK, we’ve got you. What’s your name? … … Jason? Hi, Jason, I’m Kermit … … yeah, like the frog. Do you know where any of your friends are?”

The boy shook his head, displaying a face streaked with mud, snot and tears. From somewhere, Kermit produced a large handkerchief, like a magician hauling a rabbit out of a hat and proceeded to mop the lad’s nose and eyes.

With a swift look round to make sure they hadn’t missed another kid in the vicinity, they moved off, Ryan now bringing up the rear with Stephen in front, staring intently at the ground.

“The deinonychus went into the chamber from this direction,” said Stephen, still focussed on the trampled mud floor, “but they didn’t leave it the same way, which probably explains why Jason’s still alive. I want to back-track to where we started. I can’t see any other prints here. Mary, how many ways out of that chamber are there?”

“The way we went in, plus four more.”

They rounded the corner back into the chamber. Ryan stopped abruptly, Connor almost piling into the back of him.

Four of the creatures were still there, three of them clustered around the body of the dead cave guide. Feeding. The fourth, bigger than the others, appeared to be standing watch. In one shockingly quick move, it leaped towards him, bringing both hind legs up in a slashing attack.

The soldier fired his assault rifle from the hip. One short burst, followed by a single shot.

“Two more down,” he announced, with grim satisfaction. The other two had scattered back into the darkness. “That’ll serve the greedy sods right coming back for a second helping. Kermit, don’t let the lad see, it’s not nice in there.”

Stephen slid alongside Ryan, keeping his voice low. “This isn’t going to work. We’re moving too slowly to be effective. Leave Kermit and Connor somewhere safe with the kid, somewhere they can defend. If we find any others alive we can bring them back here.”

Safe was a relative term in circumstances like these, but an alcove reached by clambering two metres up one wall was the best they could find.

With Jason stowed safely behind them, Connor and the soldier settled down to wait and watch. As the others moved off Ryan heard Kermit ask, “And if the buggers come back? I presume even the professor wouldn’t expect us to try and keep this lot alive?”

“You shoot ‘em and I cheer,” said Connor. “Got any pom-poms? We won’t be keeping them as pets, that’s for sure.”

 

Clearwell Caves. The Connection. 10.45am.

Lester leant against the wall, dragging air into his lungs in great heaving gasps. They’d been moving fast. It had been fairly easy going for the most part, but an awkward wriggle had taken it out of him and he was desperate for a few minutes respite.

By unspoken agreement, both men had been pushing the pace, neither of them able to rid their minds of the thought of more creatures loose in an area of the mine visited by unsuspecting tourists. Worse, by children.

A sense of nagging, haunting unease had gripped both of them almost as soon as they’d cleared the squeeze into what was clearly a different part of the system.

There was no way Lester wanted to stop now, but there was equally no way his legs would carry him another step without a rest.

Lyle saw the look of desperate frustration on the other man’s face and shook his head. “Forget it, sir. We take a ten minute break.”

The two men slumped next to each other, arms touching and without even being conscious of what he was doing, Lester let his head slide sideways to rest on Lyle’s shoulder. The soldier shifted position instinctively and tucked an arm round the other man’s neck, drawing him down into a more comfortable position.

“If we ever get out of here, lieutenant, I am never ever going into so much as a basement again for the rest of my life.”

Lyle’s breathless laughter was warm on his ear. “I’m beginning to agree with you.” Unless it’s a guaranteed critter-free zone.

They were both too exhausted to realise that even after five minutes, their breathing wasn’t getting any easier.

The passages that connected the Deep Levels with the Devil’s Crowll were home to a killer ever bit as deadly as anything the past could produce.

 

Clearwell Caves. Deep Levels. 11.15am.

Stephen shoved another clip into the Browning and as soon as Ryan heard the noise of a round being chambered, he reached for a fresh magazine for the M4.

The soldier swore that the fucking things were getting better at dodging.

Hart had missed his target twice now and there was certainly nothing wrong with his lover’s reactions or his aim. It was just that the deinonychus seemed to have mastered the art of drawing their fire and then bounding back into the shadows while another one attacked from a different direction.

Ryan had lost count of how many they’d hit. Five were down and wouldn’t rise again for certain. But they also had a nasty habit of playing possum. He had a hole in his right thigh to prove it. Stephen’s first aid had been basic in the extreme. Leaving Mary to keep watch, he’d taken off his helmet, shrugged the boiler suit off his shoulders then dragged his shirt off, and proceeded to use it as a pressure pad on Ryan’s thigh, holding it in place with the straps of the gun holster.

Just as Stephen was re-fastening his helmet strap, Mary said, almost casually, “Incoming!” Her Browning spat into the darkness. Once, twice, three times. “Try again, losers.” A moment later, she remarked, “I’m starting to think I watch too much crap TV.”

“What did you do before going into the hotel trade?” asked Stephen.

“Brought up three kids. The techniques are similar. Don’t give ‘em chance to argue and don’t threaten what you ain’t gonna do.”

“If you want a change of career, let me know,” said Ryan. “OK, folks, two found, two to go. Let’s move it.”

A burst of gunfire some distance away told him that Kermit and Connor had come under threat again. When the hell were these buggers going to give up? It was almost as if the bastards were out for revenge now. They were unlikely to be still after food. When they’d returned to the chamber with the second child, a girl with her left arm torn almost to shreds, Ryan had noticed that the deinonychus had dragged Fred’s body out of the churn, leaving a snail-trail of blood and guts behind as mute testimony to the man’s death.

If they survived this, he knew it’d be a hell of a long time before he got the sound of the little girl’s cries out of his ears. Even after they’d delivered the child to Connor and Kermit, he could still had her pain echoing in his head. A high-pitched frantic keening that nothing could quieten.

He found himself praying to a God that he didn’t even believe in for the arrival of Jim Mitchell’s group. If they didn’t get the injured kids to the surface quickly they’d lose at least one of them. Maybe more. Kermit had run out of anything resembling bandages and had now started cutting clothing into strips.

The only thing in their favour was that the fuckers seemed to be concentrating on hunting them while they hunted for the children.

Ryan hadn’t worked out yet whether that was a good development or a bad one. But it might mean the last two missing kids still stood a chance.

That is if they weren’t dead already.

 

Clearwell Caves. The Connection. 11am.

For fuck’s sake, just another few minutes rest, please.

Lyle shrunk away from the hand shaking his shoulder and his arms tightened round Lester’s strangely unresponsive body as he tried to settle back into much-needed sleep.

The rasp of his own laboured breathing sounded harsh in the silence of the cave and the soldier became dimly aware of a pounding in his head. The hand shook his shoulder again and Lyle’s eyes suddenly snapped open.

He and Lester were alone in the small chamber. And he was still having trouble dragging air into his lungs.

Shit! Lyle, you’re a stupid bastard! And you were bloody nearly a dead one. Still cursing himself, he started to shake the other man as hard as he’d just been shaken. “Wake up, for fuck’s sake wake up!” His movements were sluggish and the pain in his head was getting worse, but from somewhere Lyle dredged up enough energy to slap Sir James Lester hard on the face, leaving behind an angry red mark and even more smeared red mud.

The other man groaned and tried to roll away from the blow. Lyle shook him again and started to drag his companion upright.

“Move! If we don’t move we die! Bad air … … come on, shift yourself.” He hauled one of the man’s arms over his shoulder and half dragged, half carried Lester out of the chamber.

Why the hell hadn’t he realised this sooner? He’d had experience of high C02 levels before and should have recognised the signs, but they’d been pushing the pace so hard that he’d put the panting down to the fact that he was knackered. That they were both knackered.

That mistake had nearly killed them.

The passage came to an abrupt end and Lyle found himself staring at a blank wall.

Jesus H. Christ.

For a second, the soldier’s resolve came close to snapping and he slammed his fist into the rock, breaking the skin on his knuckles and mixing blood with ochre. Red on red.

This time, the hand that shook his shoulder was attached to someone he could see, as well as feel.

“Don’t give up on me now, Lyle,” demanded Lester, his voice rough. “There’s a way up, I can see it. Give me a leg up.”

It took fifteen minutes and some inventive combined tactics, but eventually, they reached the top of the climb and found themselves breathing better air. Carbon dioxide levels were still high but nowhere near as bad. Lyle’s best guess had the level down to about 2%, rather than 4%, which at least took it below the fatal mark.

This time it was Lyle who slumped for a moment against Lester, his arms trembling from the effort of hauling his companion’s entire weight up the last section of the chimney. They’d run out of footholds after the first two metres and Lyle himself had only got up by standing on Lester’s shoulders, while they were balanced precariously on a small ledge.

“Knew you were a fat bastard,” muttered Lester. “I think I’m an inch shorter now. Next time, I stand on you.”

“And you could have pulled me up?”

“Details, details, you military types are all the same. Obsessed with fucking details.”

“It’s Mister Detail who’ll keep you alive, laddie,” intoned the soldier in a mock parade-ground voice, “ Remember the Six Pees …..Planning and Preparation Prevents Piss Poor Performance.”

Lester raised an eyebrow, even though the gesture was largely pointless in view of the mud caking his face, “So, we’re god only knows where, in an area riddled with foul air, with no tackle, no survey, no-one who knows where we are and you’re trying to tell me you planned all this? Next time we go on a date, Lieutenant Lyle, I get to choose the venue.”

The look of amusement on Lyle’s face faded abruptly as both men heard the faint but unmistakeable sound of gun shots.

It looked very much like they really had succeeded in connecting the Devil’s Crowll to the Clearwell System.

 

Clearwell Caves. Deep Levels. 11.30am.

Mary Mitchell’s shoulders shook and tears streamed down her face. She’d cradled the little girl in her arms and talked to her even after she’d known the child really was dead. Hearing is the last of the senses to go and Mary wasn’t taking any chances.

Ryan took off his gloves and gently closed the child’s eyes. Stephen wrapped an arm round Mary’s shoulders as she held the small, torn body. Silent tears ran down his cheeks.

“I really thought we were going to save them all,” said Mary, in a voice no louder than a whisper. “Even knowing they’d killed Fred, I still thought we were going to save them all, I really did.”

Ryan brushed a tear off her cheeks with the same gentleness as he’d closed the little girl’s eyes.

“You can’t always save them all, Mary, but we have saved some of them.” Or at least I think we have. But it’s the ones you can’t save that you remember. All of them. Every single one.

He could still remember their faces, even now. And a blonde twelve year old whose name he didn’t even know had just found her way onto that list.

The caver stared up at him, her face white underneath the smears of red mud. “How do you cope, Ryan?”

“You try to remember the ones that you did save,” answered the soldier.

“And does it work?”

Ryan hesitated, and then told her the truth. She’d fought at his side, she’d earned it. “No. But it helps a bit. And that’s all you can hope for in this job.”

Mary looked up at him from eyes that were, for the moment, beyond fear. “We’re going to leave her here, aren’t we? Even though those bastard things might come back and eat her.”

The Special Forces captain nodded. “There’s nothing we can do for her now, but we might still be able to help the last kid.” He held his hand down to her. “Come on.”

She grabbed his fingers and let him pull her to her feet. Beside them, Stephen arranged the child’s body as decently as he could, and laid the helmet over the small face, covering a long rip down one cheek. He left her light on.

Mary met Ryan’s gaze and asked one last question, “Do you ever cry, Captain?”

He smiled, but his eyes were as bleak as a midwinter sky. “Yes, and sometimes it even helps.”

She smiled back. It didn’t reach her eyes, but it was a start.

“One last route to check,” said Stephen, drawing the Browning again and starting to move off down the passage, back the way they’d come.

At the edge of the main churn, Ryan caught Stephen’s arm and held him back. The soldier stepped out cautiously, telling his lover to cover him. They’d been ambushed here twice already and he wasn’t taking any chances.

When nothing launched an immediate attack, he called, “Connor? Kermit? What’s the score?”

“I wish we fucking knew, mate, but it looks suspiciously like a score draw from up here!” replied a voice he wasn’t expecting to hear. Stringer. “We got here ten minutes ago. Abby’s riding shotgun for me. Kermit and Pippin are heading out with Jim and the kids. Cutter and Phil are with them. Phil’s got a broken arm. Fiver’s stuck a way back down the passage. One of the fucker’s took a sodding great big lump out of his thigh and ripped his lower leg to shit as well. Fizz’s covering him. It’s gonna take a stretcher to get him out.”

“They keep coming back,” said Abby, from the ledge next to Stringer. “They know we’re here. They come in from one of the side passages, one of them tries to distract us, then they attack. They’re not just smart, they’re sneaky.”

“There’s still one kid we haven’t found,” said Ryan. “Stay there and keep picking off any you see. There’s only one passage we haven’t tried, so if you can stop them following us, it’s a bonus. Are either of you injured?”

“Joel’s got a bloody great big rip in his side,” said Abby, calmly. “I’m OK.”

“I’ll live,” said Stringer, equally calmly, “but they like the smell of blood. You can see ‘em sniffing.” And we’ve heard them ripping a body apart round the corner, but it’s probably not the time to mention that right now. Not in front of the children.

“Abby, anything else about their behaviour?” asked Stephen, already casting around on the ground near the final passage, hoping that Abby’s observations might tell them something useful.

She hesitated a moment before answering, “I don’t know. Maybe. Look at the carcasses. Some of them are smaller. Juveniles, I think. I’m almost getting the impression that they’re being taught to hunt. Taught to think, even. Jesus, Stephen, they’re fucking smart.”

In spite of the situation, Stephen grinned. Of all of them, Abby rarely swore. He’d wondered what it would take to shake her habitual composure. “I thought you liked lizards.”

Her irritated reply, “They’re not lizards!” followed him down their last, unchecked, passage.

Ryan looked down at the thick, heavily trampled mud on the floor of the passage and wondered, not for the first time, what traces Hart was finding to follow. Then he realised that the other man was looking more at the walls than the floor and that he was actually tracking marks left by small, bloodied fingers, as a child’s right hand was thrown out for balance as it had run blindly down the passage, stooping height for adults, but not for a kid.

Did they stand a chance of finding the child alive?

From behind them came the sound of Stringer’s assault rifle.

Ryan exchanged a glance with Mary, then they pressed on.


	10. Chapter 10

Many thanks, as ever, to Deinonychus_1 for help and for not objecting to me taking her username in vain!

Theis is the last part of this particular series. A short Author’s Note will appear at my LJ.

Clearwell Caves. Deep Levels. 11.40am and onwards

You can’t always save them all.

Ryan’s words came back at her like an echo in the dark.

And it doesn’t look like you’re even gonna manage to save yourself, my girl, Mary Mitchell thought, stubbornly shoving her last magazine into the pistol.

Thirteen bullets. Unlucky for some. Hopefully, not her. 

One of the creatures had already got past Stringer and Abby and had come for her from behind, out of a short low side passage, grabbing her foot as she’d been crawling through a low section of the mine. Razor sharp teeth had bitten straight through her Wellington boot and clamped round her ankle like a nail studded vice.

She’d tried to twist round, to use her gun, but the thing had started to drag her backwards. She’d screamed and a second later, Ryan’s unnaturally calm voice had told her to drop her head as low as she could, and then he’d fired down the length of her body, quite literally blowing the sodding thing off her leg and nearly deafening her in the process, but at that point the state of her eardrums had been the least of her worries.

She was propped up against the wall now, her left leg suspiciously numb from the knee downwards, blood pooling in the mud around the tattered remains of her boot.

She could see both ways down the passage, and if she didn’t pass out, the chances were she’d manage to shoot anything coming at her. Or so she hoped.

If she didn’t pass out.

* * *

Ryan hit the floor of the chamber with one shoulder and rolled. He succeeded in knocking one deinonychus straight off its feet, its head connecting with the rock wall in a satisfactorily wet combination.

Firing an assault rifle from the hip, whilst trying to keep his balance on a treacherously muddy, rock strewn floor and hurling himself at a pack of prehistoric predators did not come under the heading of Sensible Textbook Moves.

It was actually more like something straight out of the Boy’s Own Book of Suicidal Stunts, but it did serve its intended purpose, which had simply been to distract the little fuckers while Hart grabbed the last kid.

The boy had been cowering in a corner of a large chamber.

This was the final big churn in this area of the cave. Below this, the passages got progressively smaller and more torturous. They’d come into the chamber about two metres up one wall and had immediately seen a large group of deinonychus over by the far wall.

Abby was right, they did seem smaller that the ones they’d first encountered, but they were indisputably the same creatures. Maybe slightly more mottled in colour, but it was difficult to tell, as the beasts were liberally coated in mud which blurred their freckled dun colour with darker red patches.

The pack were grouped around the boy. Heads lowered, tails sticking out as a continuation of their bodies, held stiffly, tapering from a strong base to a thin, whip-like point.

The thing that creeped Ryan out the most were their noises. A sort of high pitched, keening chirrup, sounding something like a flock of carnivorous parakeets. It made the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

And to one side of the churn, they saw another group, bigger sods, a couple almost twice the size of those in the main pack. Clearly adults. Watching. Approvingly? Watching while their offspring finished herding their prey and then moved in for the kill.

The lad hadn’t been going down without a fight. He’d already grabbed any nearby rocks, throwing them with as much force as he could muster at his attackers, but the boy was hopelessly outnumbered. One arm hung limply at his side, blood dripping from the small hand. Brave kid.

One of the closer deinonychus’ had made a quick dart at the boy, jaws snapping. Ryan had fired high, over their heads, not daring to risk a shot too close to the boy. As one, the pack had turned, but didn’t give ground. A second shot had accounted for one of the adults, taking the creature high in the shoulder.

The chirruping from the survivors had only intensified.

Using himself as a human bowling ball to break up the main pack had been a crude but effective tactic, and it certainly had the element of surprise. It had also succeeded in nearly blinding his brain with pain. He re-lived the fierce strike of that fucking claw embedding itself in his thigh and for a dangerously long moment his senses swam and his mind fought for dominance over the pain. And won, but only by a narrow margin.

Stephen slithered down the rock face after him, feeling desperately naked with his gun holstered, but without both hands free, he didn’t stand a chance. The floor of the chamber was slippery with wet, clinging mud. He lost his footing, went down heavily on one knee and only narrowly avoided a strike from a clawed foot which came dangerously close to ham-stringing him.

He grabbed the boy’s good hand and hauled him up, dragging him back towards to the climb. A cry of pain from Ryan froze his blood and he half turned, reaching automatically for the Browning.

“Get out of here! Now! Shift your pretty ass and don’t look back, Hart!” If he was going to get ripped to shreds he’d rather his lover didn’t have to watch.

At the moment, Ryan was focused on one thing and one thing alone and that was taking as many of the buggers down with him as he could contrive. Every one he killed was one that wasn’t going to be snapping at Hart’s heels as he did his best to shove the terrified kid up the two metre climb and scramble after him.

With Hart and the boy finally out of his line of fire, he could at last switch from single shot to full auto. His finger started to squeeze the trigger. One decent burst would even the odds in his favour, he was certain of that ……..

The silence that greeted him was more deafening than any burst of automatic fire.

Ryan’s rifle had finally succumbed to the red mud of the ancient iron mine and had jammed.

The chirruping got louder.

* * *

Stephen Hart knew he should be hearing rifle shots by now, but the loudest noise around him was still the sound of his own panting as he half dragged, half carried the terrified boy along the passage.

Then the sound of gunfire started again and just for a second he almost relaxed, until he realized that the noise was coming from in front of him, not from behind.

God, don’t let him die, not here, not like this, not underground ………

He would have given anything just to turn round and go back. Back to whatever horror the chamber might hold, as long as it meant that going back to the man who’d become his lover, then his friend. The trouble was, if he did that and the deinonychus didn’t kill him then his boyfriend almost certainly would.

It would take a braver man than him to disobey Captain Ryan after he’d used that tone of voice.

* * *

Mary had fired six of her remaining thirteen rounds.

And the good news was that the body of the last deinonychus seemed to have blocked the passage behind her. She allowed herself a small smile of relief. She just hoped it wasn’t going to be too premature.

A few, scant moments later, she heard the noise of movement in the narrow passage behind the body. Then she heard a sucking, glooping noise as something started to come free of the heavy mud, and she felt the draught in the narrow passage start up again.

Something was moving the blockage. To be precise, something was moving the body of the deinonychus.

“Abby? Stringer?”

Silence. Followed by another dragging noise.

“Anyone?”

Then she heard the chirruping.

* * *

“Stringer?” Abby shook the soldier’s shoulder, none too gently either. “Joel? Don’t bloody well pass out on me!”

“Sorry,” muttered Stringer, trying, and failing, to get into a position where his injured side wasn’t sending him half mad with pain. The last burst of automatic fire he’d attempted hadn’t helped. And even worse, he’d missed the fuckers.

“Show me how to use the rifle.”

“It’s nearly as big as you are,” he countered, attempting a grin.

“If you weren’t already ripped up and bleeding, I’d make you regret that remark,” she replied, but her large blue eyes were warm and her expression gave the lie to the words.

“Give me a kiss and I’ll show you how to use the rifle.”

“Do you make a habit of making improper suggestions to civilians, Captain?”

“Never done it before in my life, ma’am. I blame blood loss and imminent death for making me unusually bold.” In spite of the pain, Stringer managed to make his accent sound even more public school than usual.

Entirely to his surprise, Abby leaned over and kissed him. Gentle, teasing, with just a hint of tongue and cave mud.

“Now show me how to use the fucking rifle, Captain.”

* * *

They came at him so fast that Ryan didn’t have time to try and draw the Browning. In sheer desperation, he reversed his hold on the jammed rifle and started to swing it like a club.

He was fast, but the deinonychus were faster. As one, they jumped backwards.

But one of them slipped and he could have sworn that the noises the adults were making sounded kind of disapproving.

He pressed the advantage before it could regain its feet and stamped down hard with his uninjured leg on the little fucker’s head. Its skull crunched under his boot in a most satisfactory way.

Got you!

Ryan’s elation was short lived. A unnaturally fast strike from one of the others laid his right calf open to the bone and then needle sharp teeth fastened around his ankle.

He slammed the rifle butt down as hard as he could. Missed the head, but connected with its backbone and something snapped. He hoped it wasn’t the rifle.

He tried to swing the weapon again. A high strike from a wickedly flashing claw narrowly missed his arm, but the teeth of another of the bastards that closely followed it didn’t.

And then the rest of them closed in and started to drag him down.

He’d watched wildlife films. He knew what came next.

* * *

“Situation report!” Kermit’s voice echoed round the chamber.

“Watch yourself, mate, Merry’s got my rifle!” replied Stringer, failing to keep the relief out of his voice.

“You are so in trouble,” hissed Abby. “That’s going to cost you a very expensive dinner.” As an afterthought, she added, “What did you just call me?”

Stringer raised his voice again, answering Kermit, not her, “Two of us. Vermin still on the loose. Don’t take any chances and don’t make a move down here without being covered! Who’s with you?”

“The Professor and Jim.”

“Send one of them in to act as decoy, kill anything that moves, then get ready to shoot the next little fucker that arrives as well. They like using combined tactics.”

Without being asked, Abby handed the rifle back to him. With a human decoy in the chamber, she couldn’t risk her own inexperience with the weapon. If she survived this, she was taking lessons, whatever Cutter had to say about it.

“If you faint, can I slap your face?” she asked, calmly. Judging by what had happened last time, it was a very real possibility that the pain from the rifle’s recoil would be too much for him.

“As long as you kiss it better afterwards. By the way, men don’t faint, we pass out. Far more manly.”

Her eyes were as wide and round as a bush-baby’s and the grin she gave him made him even more determined to get out of here alive.

“I’ll try and remember that, Captain. OK, it’s a deal. But what about my expensive dinner?”

“Did I forget to say yes? How remiss of me. Kermit, on the count of three, send someone in!”

* * *

The noise of a single pistol shot, coming from some distance away, echoed quietly round the chamber, almost lost in the last two bursts of automatic fire.

The bodies of three deinonychus had been almost torn apart by the hail of bullets from two different directions.

Jim Mitchell opened his eyes, surprised to find he was still alive. Kermit had told him to close his eyes on the count of five, no matter what happened or where he’d reached, to avoid being blinded by the muzzle flashes.

It was a measure of the trust he was prepared to place in the Special Forces soldiers that he’d obeyed the instruction. But he prayed to any god that would listen that he never had to stand blind in the middle of a storm of bullets again with a pack of killers from the past trying to stab him with their un-manicured toe-nails.

He opened his eyes just as the pistol shot sounded.

“Stringer, where’s my wife!”

It was Abby who answered. “She went down the passage straight ahead of you, Jim. And none of them have come back yet. I think that’s where the last shot came from.”

Then she turned her attention to Joel Stringer, who, as expected, had just passed out. She couldn’t decide whether he looked manly or just very, very wrecked. But she slapped him anyway.

He was better with the rifle than she was. So they needed him conscious, even if he didn’t stay that way for long.

He groaned and she slapped him again, although more gently, this time.

And in case it helped, she kissed him as well.

* * *

Mary had fired six shots. Only seven left now. The numbers ran round in her head like worry beads. She was certain that she’d wasted at least three of the last few bullets, doing more damage to the passage walls than to anything attempting to approach her.

She was now finding it almost impossible to hold the heavy pistol straight, even two handed. If she fired again too quickly, the recoil meant her next shot blasted a hole in the roof, nothing more. She’d now started making that mistake too often.

A noise behind her, claimed her attention. If they started to come at her from both sides, she didn’t stand a chance.

A small boy came lurching down the passage at an ungainly run.

Closely followed by Stephen Hart. And she really didn’t want to know what had caused the look on his face.

Before she had chance to ask the obvious question, a burst of gun-fire ripped through the air from another direction and much-loved voice yelled, “Clear! We’re coming through!”

It very much looked like the cavalry had arrived from two different directions at once.

Mary Mitchell had never been more pleased to see her husband in her entire life. She just hoped that the blood dripping down his face wasn’t his own.

* * *

“Run out of bullets, sir?” asked Lyle, kicking one of the carcasses off Ryan and bending down to try and get a grip on a second one.

“Fucking rifle jammed,” muttered Ryan, wondering if there was any part of him that wasn’t screaming out in agony.

He managed to lift himself up on one elbow just in time to see Sir James Lester blow a small deinonychus’ head apart at point blank range. Lyle had clearly decided to let the other man get some firearms practice.

“Knew you’d get the hang of this shooting lark eventually, honey,” said Lyle approvingly to the civil servant.

Lester smiled, and calmly fired straight past Lyle, his shot taking the last remaining adult deinonychus in the chest. He held the Browning down hard with both hands and put the next bullet straight between its open jaws.

Lyle grinned broadly, heaved another body off Ryan, and remarked, “I taught him everything he knows about guns.” Then he straightened up, cast a quick and very professional eye round the carnage in the small chamber and when he was satisfied that nothing was moving, he sauntered over to Lester and planted an open-mouthed kiss on the other man’s muddy lips. “As you know, I don’t go for men, but that was a fucking good shot, so I’ll make an exception in your case.”

The surprised look on Lester’s face was so good he almost considered doing it again. And probably would have if a bloodied Ryan hadn’t claimed his attention by trying, and failing, to get himself upright by leaning on his rifle.

Lyle made a disapproving noise. “You’re meant to use the butt on the ground when they’re in walking-stick mode, Ryan, not the muzzle. Didn’t you learn anything at Sandhurst? No wonder it jammed. Are you suitably pleased to see us, by the way?”

“Yes, but I’m not going to give you the satisfaction of asking how you got here, Jon.”

“Good, because if I told you, I might have to kill you.”

“And the story will be easier to believe when you’re outside of a shit-load of beer,” remarked Lester, holstering the pistol and helping Lyle drag the Special Forces leader to his feet. Although on second thoughts, perhaps they’d just tell lies. It’d be easier that way.

Christ, Ryan was heavy!

It was going to be a long time before they all got out of here if the rest of the casualties weighed as much as the injured captain.

 

Clearwell Caves. 3.30pm.

It took three hours and three trips back into Clearwell to evacuate every casualty, and by the end of it, Sir James Lester was more knackered than he’d ever been in his entire life.

And he wasn’t the only one.

Ryan leant against the side wall of the ticket office, only upright by reason of the support he was getting from Stephen Hart’s encircling arms.

“Ambulance coming for you in another five minutes, Ryan!” yelled Lyle’s still cheerful voice from out of sight around the corner. “If you’re gonna shag or something, you’d best make it quick! Ditzy’s betting you’ll never get it up in your state, but my money’s on you, mate.”

Stephen’s blue eyes opened wide with incredulity. “They’re serious, aren’t they?”

He wasn’t sure whether the noise Ryan made in answer was a laugh or a groan but he found himself pulled in closer, up against the mud-covered, blood-drenched tac vest and there was no mistaking the hardness between the soldier’s legs.

“No sodding way, you’re covered in pints of your own blood! You don’t have enough to spare for an erection. Be sensible, Ryan!”

The soldier sighed. “Hart, it’s the only part of me that’s left intact and I’d just like to remind you that several hours ago, you promised me the best blow-job of my life, at a time and place of my choosing. Well, I’m still alive and I’ve got the worst post-combat hard-on I’ve ever hard, so get on with it. If I know my lads, there’s some serious money riding on this, and I want my cut.”

Torn between laughter and exasperation, Stephen compromised and kissed him. At least Ryan had opted for the blow-job and not a shag. His arse hadn’t recovered enough for that yet.

Ryan kissed back, hard, almost desperate. Trying to swamp memory with sensation.

Moments later, Hart was down on his knees and a warm, wet and very skilful mouth was dragging Ryan inexorably towards what was probably the most spectacularly painful orgasm of his life. And almost certainly the most intense.

Stephen’s tongue was still lapping gently at him when Ryan cleared his throat and called out, “Lyle, what do you want by way of proof, and what’s my share of the take?”

 

The Hotel. 10.30pm.

The casualties from Clearwell had been evacuated to a military hospital near Hereford.

Mary and some of those with more minor injuries had arrived back at the hotel an hour ago. Her lower leg was heavily bandaged. Several of the others looked like extras from an old horror movie.

Two who didn’t return were Fiver and Stringer. Both had taken very deep strikes from adult deinonychus’. They would survive, but it had come close, particularly for Stringer, who’d lost a nearly fatal amount of blood by the time they’d brought him to the surface.

Terrible Claw was generally reckoned to have been an under-stated description.

With the exception of Lyle, not one of the Special Forces soldiers who had entered Clearwell had emerged unscathed.

Blade, Finn and Dave Shaw had made it out of the Crowll at almost exactly the same time as the last casualty had come to the surface at Clearwell.

That had caused Lyle to remark happily that the Devil’s Crowll was clearly the easier of the two trips. Down there, you only had to contend with over-grown crocodiles, rather than psychopathic raptors.

Connor had then promptly treated everyone to a detailed lecture on exactly where Jurassic Park had gone wrong in their portrayal of raptors.

Of the civilians, the worst injured was one of the little girls. The surgeons hadn’t been able to save her arm. But eight of the nine children had survived.

In spite of his numerous injuries, Ryan had insisted on being discharged, and much to Stephen’s amazement, he’d been allowed back to the Hotel, which was now bearing a close resemblance to an Out Patient’s Ward but with added alcohol and more guns.

Abby had insisted on staying at the hospital with Stringer.

Ditzy was wandering around dispensing painkillers and threatening to stick a thermometer up the arse of anyone who refused the pills.

Jim Mitchell was following in his wake, the dispensing alcohol. No-one refused anything from his version of the pill-trolley.

Lyle was lounging on the rug in front of a large log fire, steadily feeding wood to the flames. He’d spent too long out of the last two days freezing cold and was making up for it now. No-one objected, even though the room was getting so hot that most people were shedding clothes with startling rapidity.

Ryan lay sprawled out on a sofa, his head on Stephen’s lap. The soldier was wearing a loose tee shirt and track-suit bottoms, the only clothing options compatible with the bandages swathing various limbs. He hadn’t quite resorted to demanding grapes. Not yet.

Sir James Lester had compromised his usual sartorial standards by not wearing a tie. He hadn’t shaved either, which had caused Claudia to take Ditzy aside and ask the medic whether the man had any undisclosed injuries.

“There’s something you two aren’t telling us,” said Cutter, fixing Lester and Lyle with a faintly disapproving stare.

Well, we haven’t mentioned the way Lyle dislocated your wife’s finger, but somehow I don’t think that’s what you mean. “What makes you say that, Professor?”

“Lyle kept giving you sideways looks during parts of the story.”

You’re a perceptive bastard, thought Lester, apart from where your wife’s concerned. The civil servant sent the Special Forces lieutenant a hard stare.

Lyle gave a shamefaced grin. He also shot another sideways glance at Lester, which Connor seized on and pointed out gleefully, in case anyone had missed it. He did love a good conspiracy particularly one involving the Government and the Military.

When an answer wasn’t immediately forthcoming, the student went back to tapping out notes on his laptop for a paper on Pedagogic Behaviour Amongst Dromaeosaurs (with special reference to Deinonychus).

“You’ve always stressed the importance of full reporting, James,” said Claudia, curled up next to Cutter, their shoulders touching comfortably.

The look Lester directed at her was knife sharp.

“You know the importance of data,” added Cutter. “How can we hope to analyse the anomalies if you hold things back?”

“They got shifty at two points,” Connor said, his dark eyes shining with interest. “Once when they were talking about digging their way out of the chamber, and again later when Lyle mentioned the CO2.”

“Can’t we talk about why your wife carries a lump of iron-ore around in her rucksack, Cutter?” said Lester, trying introduce a distraction.

“It’s a lodestone, she’s had it for years. She brought it back from Russia,” and I hadn’t realized it had disappeared from the house. “We need an expert on magnetic theory, Lester, you do know that, don’t you?”

Well, you have mentioned it at least ten times in the last two hours, so yes, I do know that.

“Miss Brown will deal with it in the morning, won’t you, Miss Brown?”

Claudia sighed. “You’re avoiding the question, James.”

Bloody woman. Why can’t she just take Cutter off to bed?

Lester leant back in the chair and took a long swallow of beer. “You got us into this mess, Lyle, you explain.”

The soldier promptly elevated the art of looking uncomfortable to new heights.

Connor equally promptly leant forward, radiating eagerness.

“Well, like I told your wife, Professor, we saw a ghost,” said Lyle, chucking another log on the fire and poking at it, hoping the heat would explain the flush on his face.

Cutter’s expression bore a remarkable similarity to one of Helen’s disdainful looks.

Jim Mitchell, on the other hand, gave a quiet laugh. “You saw Mr. Smith?”

Lyle nodded.

Lester raised his eyebrows. It worked better when they weren’t covered in mud. “You know him, Jim?”

“Not personally, but I’ve been told he’s a helpful old chap, well at least he is around here, so they say. He last turned up a few years ago, when they were putting some new lighting into the show-cave. The electricians were running out of cable, and an old chap appeared, showed them a short-cut, and when they turned round to thank him, he was gone.”

Connor’s eyes widened with delight. “A ghost? A real live ghost?”

“I think ghosts are meant to be dead, Con,” Stephen offered helpfully, one hand gently stroking Ryan’s hair.

“Ghosts don’t exist,” said Cutter, flatly. “You were delusional. Probably a mixture of oxygen deprivation and stress.”

“Smith isn’t a ghost.” To everyone’s surprise, it was Lester who spoke. “More a sort of embodiment of the spirit of the mines. THE miner, if you like.” The silence that greeted his words was as deep as any the subterranean world had to offer. Lyle, I am going to make you regret dropping me in this one. “My brother is a Consultant Geologist who specializes in mines, Cutter. Talk to him about this sometime. All miners know about the Old Man. Sometimes it just feels like there’s someone following you down a level, but when you look over your shoulder, no-one’s there. Sometimes he’s more solid than that.”

“He turns up in caves as well,” added Lyle. “There’s a place called Smith’s Armory in Ogof Ffynnon Ddu in South Wales. And rumour has it he’s a bit grouchy over there.”

Cutter shook his head. “There is no such things as ghosts,” he said, slowly and clearly in the voice he reserved for his tutorial groups when they were being particularly obtuse. “Repeat after me, both of you ………”

“And there’s no such thing as freakin’ monsters,” muttered Ryan, “so what just ripped me to shit, then?”

“You know you like it rough, darling,” muttered Stephen, carefully tilting the beer bottle to his lover’s mouth.

Lester walked over to the bar counter for another drink and then used the opportunity to escape the ensuing debate and slip quietly away, leaving Lyle to take the flak.

Serves the sod right.

 

The Hotel. 11pm.

The knock on the bedroom door made him jump, even though he hadn’t been asleep.

Sir James Lester slid carefully off the bed, every single muscle and tendon in his body screaming in a loudly orchestrated chorus of protest.

The door swung open before he got to it, revealing Lyle, carrying beer, several bottles of the stuff.

“It was locked,” remarked Lester.

“They teach us all sorts of useful things at Soldier School,” said Lyle, cheerfully. He had, in fact, just snagged the master key from behind the reception desk but saw no need to mention that. He held out a bottle as a peace-offering. “Thought you might like another beer.”

Lester hadn’t felt inclined towards more company or more drink but the flush from the firelight still warmed Lyle’s face, and more alcohol suddenly didn’t seem like a bad idea either.

“Beer comes fairly high up the list of things I might like,” said Lester, carefully.

Lyle slid into the room, and lounged against the closed door, his hazel eyes holding the promise of more than just beer. “What comes higher on the list, sir?”

Not being on my own when the fucking nightmares come and I start screaming.

Lester allowed his habitual distain to slide away from the angles and planes of his sharp face. He looked younger, even with the heavy stubble shading his jaw.

He didn’t answer the question aloud. He suspected he didn't need to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It all started with the Primeval_100 Challenge, the Forest of Dean, and because I like the area, I did a quick drabble, with Helen as a character, and was promptly and irrevocably mobbed by a pack of ravening plot-bunnies covered in red cave mud and the rest is history.
> 
> The entire bloody DC series runs to approximately 52,100 words, which takes the whole lot so far to a total of approximately 86,300 (blimey, what could I have been doing with my life if it hadn’t been for this show??) and DC has take 4 months to write and post and numerous people have provided ideas, beta help and generally sustained me with e-cookies and e-gin throughout this sodding Epic.
> 
> All the places described and mentioned, with the exception of the Devil’s Crowll itself, do exist. 
> 
> Visit Clearwell Caves in the Forest of Dean. The tourist trail is great fun. If you’re feeling intrepid, you can take an extended tour into the Deep Levels. And I bought a wonderful Clearwell Caves mug when I did a “research trip” there a couple of months ago and I have drink gallons of tea out of it while writing!!
> 
> The cave rescue in Agen Allwedd, used as the plot device to remove any surplus cavers from the area at the relevant time, happened exactly as mentioned in the story. The casualty survived, although it took two days to get him out. And he didn’t give up caving.
> 
> The techniques and equipment described in the caving and diving scenes are as accurate as I can make them, and errors in the diving scenes are in no way down to my wonderful and ever-helpful cave-diving consultant. And yes, gross as it seems, it really is possible to throw up under water. I know two people who have done it. YUK.
> 
> The references to Smith aka the Old Man and his reputed appearance in Clearwell during the re-lighting works are also true. Whether you believe in him, or subscribe to Cutter’s views, is an entirely personal thing. I’ve never actually met Smith in person, but I’ve certainly felt him walking along behind me in various places, and I haven’t always wanted to turn round, believe me. Sometimes he’s scared me and sometimes he hasn’t. I think it just depends on where you happen to be, and maybe how he’s feeling. I know too many people who have felt his presence to disbelieve in him.
> 
> And in many ways, it was because of Mr. Smith that I decided to write this note. After all, in a fic involving time anomalies and dinosaurs, the hardest thing to accept might well be him, so I thought he deserved an explanation. The song includes reference to "the ghosts and the knockers". Knockers is a common term for mine spirits, usually malevolent. Miners are often deeply superstitious people, well you can't blame them, mines are dangerous places and can be damned spooky. Ghosts could be a reference here to the Old Man.


End file.
